


The Ineffable Game

by IneffablePenguin



Series: Love, and Other Ineffable Things [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels Can Sense Love (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Danger!, Declarations Of Love, Desperate Measures, Dire Peril, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Married Couple, Minor Violence, Miracles, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Revenge, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stargazing, Super soft smut, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), True Love, mild reference to PTSD, vers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 96,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffablePenguin/pseuds/IneffablePenguin
Summary: It is just barely summer again, the following year after the Apocalypse. Crowley and Aziraphale are finally married and living in the South Downs. They are in love with each other and life, but the larger world spins on and must still be dealt with.Wherein consequences are faced, choices are made, love is affirmed, destinies are fulfilled, and the Ineffable Game comes full circle.{The final installment of the "Love, and Other Ineffable Things" series}
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love, and Other Ineffable Things [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1405606
Comments: 531
Kudos: 425
Collections: Tip Top Stories





	1. The Calm

**Author's Note:**

> Previously I've posted this story in individual small snippets as a series, but going forward the rest will be in this one long chaptered fic.
> 
> (This story gets a lot heavier than the previous parts of this series, as everything eventually comes to a head, but fear not!) 
> 
> Thanks so much to all my fabulous readers for all your lovely comments and encouragement, you are all so amazing!

* * *

Crowley had never really been a morning person.

In general, he considered rising before nine to be completely unnecessary at best and borderline sadistic at worst. Mornings were, in general, cold and damp and usually full of unpleasant tasks that no one in their right mind would want to do. There was no chore so urgent that it couldn’t wait a couple hours until a sane time of day.

It was just his luck, then, to have married the most chipper morning person alive. Aziraphale was a disgustingly cheerful early riser (provided he slept at all), because of course he was. Bursting with energy at truly unholy hours. It was unnatural, even for a being who didn’t technically need sleep. Crowley had managed to get him sleeping more or less regularly, but he still had the Herculean task ahead of teaching the angel to stay that way. As far as he was concerned sleep was one of the greatest pleasures in life, and it was barking mad to give it up too early on any day.

Nevertheless, here it was barely past seven, the light shining through the bedroom window still pale and weak, and they were already awake. Still in bed, but awake. The day had begun with a sleepy back rub good enough to make him melt, and the follow up was…enough to make him re-think his stance on mornings entirely.

Nothing in the world, not even sleep, compared to the feeling of lying here on his stomach with his angel atop him, warm lips kissing down his back, forehead pressed to the nape of his neck. Those soft, strong hands gripping tight on his hips, pulling him closer, closer, his own hips pushing against him, while Crowley clutched at the sheets and gasped his pleasure into the thick bedding. The feeling that if he did not get nearer to him he would simply break into pieces.

Mornings, he decided, were entirely different when you had something worthwhile to wake up _for_.

Aziraphale shifted up to slide his arms around his chest, pulling them closer together as if he had read his mind. He smelled like clean skin and that scented lotion he always used on his hands. The soft summer-warmth of his body pressed him down into the plush mattress with each perfect thrust, silky sheets rubbed against his erect groin from underneath, and in between was not soft at all. Crowley closed his eyes and moaned; God, but he could easily lie here like this forever, basking in the glow of him, of being loved and wanted. And oh, oh it was so wonderfully, _rigidly_ clear that he was wanted. Aziraphale held him tight, hands clutched possessively, making slow tracks across his shoulder blades with his tongue as he made love to him. Kissing the places where his wings would be. Whispering things in his ear that lit him up and made him want to come, things that nearly made him sob with their sharp beauty; things involving _lovely_ and _sweet_ and _kind_ , and _perfect_. Those words created tiny ripples in his soul, like pebbles in a pond, and in the privacy of his mind Crowley cried out to him in gratitude. _Please, take me, possess me. Want me. I’m yours, body and soul_. The angel gently bit the back of his neck as he moved, and at that bite all the beautiful sensations suddenly drew together into an irresistible pressure. He couldn’t take it- he buried his face in the blanket and let out a long groan of ecstasy, trembling as it all punched out of him.

“Oh darling. Mmm.” Aziraphale sounded like he was smiling as he paused and kissed his neck, right on the place where he had bitten. “You liked that, hm? That one was quick.” His hands stroked his chest as he rested his chin on his shoulder.

“Mmm hm.” He was smiling too, blanket still clutched against his face, trying to catch his breath. Little shudders of pleasure were going through him like aftershocks. “Wasn’t trying not to.”

“Good.” The angel reached out to thread their fingers together, pinning both his hands palm-down to the bed. “You need to relax more, my love,” he murmured in his ear. Soft lips touched the very centre of his back, between his shoulder blades, sending fresh shivers down his spine. Aziraphale resumed, slightly faster, and it was only a minute or two before his body clenched atop him with a series of shaking moans. Crowley held his hands tightly through it, steadying him and moaning with him as he came.

Afterwards the angel gently insisted that he not move, and Crowley was happy to obey. He shifted his cheek to a cooler part of the sheets and just lay there as those soft hands resumed massaging his shoulders, then his back, eventually working all the way down to his feet. More languorous kisses all the while, blessing every area of his body little by little as the tension was slowly rubbed out of his still-tingling skin. Fingers slowly combing through his hair from his temples to the base of his head, over and over and over again until he thought he might die from the sheer luxury of it all. Aziraphale had apparently woken up determined to love him to death, and there was no better fate in all the world.

He tried to reciprocate, once, but his husband only pressed him firmly back down and lay atop him, pinning him in place, and resumed pouring out all of his considerable ability to love. He was forced to just lie there sprawled out and take it, face burning, as those perfect uncalloused fingers whispered over his skin.

He didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours before he finally mustered a titanic effort of will, and sat up. “And where do you think you are going?” Aziraphale sat up behind him and wrapped restraining arms tight around his chest, trapping him in place, which was actually helpful because he might have otherwise fallen over. Warm lips brushed the side of his throat, making him shiver. “I’m not done with you just yet.”

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” Crowley reassured him with a smile. Aziraphale held him there for a bit, pressing affectionate little kisses all along his jaw and neck, but after a few more promises he managed to reluctantly extricate himself. He stood up unsteadily and slipped into the black silk dressing gown draped over the nearby desk chair, then made his woozy way downstairs to make them some tea. He had brought Aziraphale tea or breakfast in bed every morning since they moved, and he wasn’t going to stop now just because his bones felt like they had been turned to jelly. He wobbled down the steps and through the sitting room in a pleasant daze, still feeling the phantom touch of lips on his back.

As he reached the kitchen he heard a faint yowl, and with a roll of his eyes went to the front door to let in Menace. The small, skinny black cat waltzed right in and pressed against his ankles, purring, and he crouched down to scratch its head for a minute. The right ear was missing a ragged chunk, as if something had taken a bite out of it.

“Good morning to you, too. Though I guarantee mine is better.” He kept his voice low. If Aziraphale overheard him speaking to the cat he might actually disappear in a puff of embarrassed smoke.

Pleasantries dispensed, Menace trotted over to the small ceramic bowl on the kitchen floor and began to scarf down breakfast. Crowley shook his head as he set a polished wooden tray on the counter and pulled the teapot from the cupboard. For some reason the little stray had taken a completely unwarranted liking to him from day one, a fact that he still found bizarre but had come to accept. There was just no accounting for taste. The animal had then stealthily moved in without his permission over the course of a couple weeks. After that first moving day he kept popping up at their door in bad weather, looking steadily more bedraggled and pathetic, and really, what was he supposed to do? He kept relenting and letting him stay “just one more time.” Aziraphale had finally bought the cat a small cushion of his own to sleep on, and of course that was that. Now barely a month later he came and went as he pleased, the presumptuous bastard. He also constantly followed Crowley around the house, like a furry little shadow, completely indifferent to both his glowering and his halfhearted attempts to shoo him away. Aziraphale found it incredibly funny and was no help at all. He only giggled helplessly whenever Crowley called to him to get over here and remove the bloody cat from his lap/ plant/ chair/ trouser leg.

It would be a lot easier if Menace wasn’t so obviously happy to see him. Despite his very best efforts Crowley found himself growing attached. This is what came of naming the damn thing. He considered the situation to be one hundred percent Aziraphale’s fault.

Said name had started as a joke when the angel suggested that Crowley decide what to call the scrawny beast, then had somehow morphed into a permanent moniker. Menace wasn’t quite so scrawny any more, Crowley noted as he arranged cups and sugar and cream on the tray. Aziraphale fed the cat constantly, and over the last month the gaunt rib cage had filled out a bit.

He selected a bag of Earl Grey and placed it in the fine china teapot for steeping. With a snap of his fingers he boiled the water; there was a quiet sizzling noise and a puff of aromatic steam floated out of the spout. After a moment’s thought he went to another cupboard and added a handful of Aziraphale’s favourite spiced ginger biscuits to the tray, then picked up the entire arrangement and carried it upstairs.

\---------

Aziraphale was sitting up in bed against the headboard, already engrossed in a paperback book- _The Odyssey_ , if he wasn’t mistaken. He wore nothing but those ridiculous little wire-rimmed reading glasses, and the sight was funny enough to make Crowley chuckle out loud as he walked in.

Aziraphale looked up at the sound. He turned rather pink and quickly pulled one of the blankets over himself.

“Hey, don’t do that. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Crowley set the tray on the bed and climbed in next to him under the covers, careful to not jostle the tea.

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiled and set his book aside, and reached down to take his hand. “Weren’t you?”

“No! Well, I mean, I was laughing at those glasses, not at you,” he said, and kissed his hand. That wasn’t quite enough, so he put an arm around his shoulders and kissed him unhurriedly on the mouth as well. “I’d never laugh at you,” he said, serious now.

“Hm.” The angel raised pale eyebrows at him skeptically. His lips quirked a little. “Now _that_ is patently untrue, dear, and you know it.”

“Well…yeah. But not like that.” He grinned, and jerked his head towards the tray. “Tea?”

Aziraphale brightened. “Ooh, yes. Just you sit right there, I’ll do it. It’s my turn to take care of you for once.” He didn’t give him a chance to argue, but shifted to sit cross-legged and firmly pulled the tray over to his side of the bed. As he bent forward to pour the tea Crowley noticed a few crescent-shaped purple marks on the angel’s back – souvenirs from the rather frantic night before. He smirked and leaned over to slowly touch his mouth to each bruise, tracing the shape of each one with his tongue and savouring the memory. The skin was soft and warm under his lips. God, so impossibly perfect.

He was assailed by the sudden urge to tackle Aziraphale down to the bed and give him a few more marks for his collection. He kept the urge firmly in his own head, but allowed himself to enjoy the extremely pleasant images it provided: The contents of the tray scattered haphazard across the bed, hands clasped tightly in the blankets. Satiny skin pressing, shifting under and around him. The taste of salt. That perfect, angelic face scrunching up, lips softly parted, moaning in pleasure as he-” 

“Here you are, sweetheart.”

Right. Tea. Shit. He pulled himself together with a jerk and accepted a full, steaming cup – black, of course – with a mostly-calm nod of thanks. 

Azirpahale bombarded his own tea with enough cream and sugar to turn the caramel liquid a pale beige. He stirred precisely four times with the little silver spoon, then held the cup poised just so over the saucer and inhaled the fragrant steam. He sipped delicately, gave a satisfied sigh, and let his eyes slide closed as he continued drinking. Cross-legged and straight-backed, a faint smile on his lips- the picture of quiet contentment. Crowley just watched him for a minute, fascinated. Only Aziraphale could somehow look like he was dining at the Ritz while sitting naked in bed. He always radiated happiness (and over the smallest things!) the way fire gave off heat, and it was absolutely enchanting. Just sitting near him was enough to warm him to his core.

“You’re staring again, love,” Aziraphale murmured without opening his eyes.

_How the hell does he do that?_ “Am not.”

Aziraphale only smiled, nose still buried in his teacup.

He’d recently learned that the angel was not quite as oblivious as he’d previously thought, the sneaky bastard. It was kind of embarrassing, but he didn’t really mind anymore. Crowley selected a biscuit and shoved it into his mouth whole, and boldly kept staring as he chewed. He knew he must look like the world’s biggest lovestruck fool, but dammit, he just couldn’t help himself. It still felt like such a luxury to be able to love him openly, without fear of scaring him away.

Aziraphale was gazing out the window now. Bright streamers of June sunshine were pouring in over the painted white sill, catching sparkling motes of dust in their beams and lighting up the entire room. “It’s so early,” he commented dreamily, as if that was a good thing. He sipped again, and sighed. “We still have the whole day ahead of us. We can go do anything.”

Crowley gave a noncommittal grunt at that and took a gulp of his unsugared tea. It was quality stuff- nice and strong, but getting a bit cool for his taste. He blew on it, and a cloud of thick white steam immediately billowed up as it boiled anew. Much better.

Aziraphale hummed to himself, then scooted a bit closer and rested his head on his shoulder. The simple gesture created such a swell of happiness in Crowley’s chest that it demanded a response, so he set the tea down and slid his arms around his waist. Fine curls tickled his cheek as he hugged him, and he wondered for the umpteenth time at the unlikely paradise his life had become. Surely demons were not meant to be this happy. It felt like cheating. “We could hit that new Italian place for lunch later, if you like. I know you’ve had your eye on it.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Too bad we can’t go right now.”

“Yuh huh.” He for his part was very content to just sit here. He had always enjoyed doing nothing, but he hadn’t anticipated how much more he would enjoy doing nothing with Aziraphale.

The bedroom was warm and cosy, his angel was safe and happy beside him, and life was theirs for the taking. At that moment absolutely all was right with the world.

There was a soft thump. He looked over to see that Menace had jumped up onto the bed and was now sniffing at the tea tray. “Oi!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “No! Out, get out.” He brandished his free arm a few times, swiping at the air, but the cat just stared at him impassively with those emerald-green eyes. “Go!” He pointed firmly at the door. Menace lay down on the far corner of the bed, well out of his reach, and looked away. He also started purring, just to add insult to injury. Aziraphale choked slightly on his tea as he began to chuckle. “Quiet, you," Crowley said. “Ah, no, don't encourage him..." He groaned as the angel leaned over and reached out to rub the furry head. Menace just purred and purred as the two of them completely ignored his sputtering.

No respect. None at all. He gave up and slumped back against the headboard. He was far too comfortable to muster any real irritation. "Next time I’m bringing you salt instead of sugar with your tea,” he grumbled. 

“Truly demonic, my love.” Aziraphale didn’t sound overly concerned as he sat back again with a sigh.

“Yes.” He put his arms around him again, and leaned in to hiss threateningly in his ear. “I’ll get us fast food for dinner. I’ll buy you _white_ chocolate instead of regular.”

“Now, darling, that’s just uncalled for.”

“Ha.” Though he supposed white chocolate probably was going too far; some things just couldn’t be countenanced. He pulled the sheet up just a little further over Aziraphale’s front to keep him warm, and rested his own head against the blond one. His eyelids were suddenly feeling heavy again; it was still very early by his standards, and between the back rubs and the sex he was relaxed enough to pass out. Menace’s constant rumbling purr was also annoyingly soothing. Surely a little nap couldn’t hurt. As the angel said, they still had the whole day ahead of them. Plenty of time for…whatever. He let himself sink just a bit further down into the mattress with a yawn.

* * *

Aziraphale knew the very moment that Crowley fell asleep. The demon’s body went ever so slightly more slack, and the steady thrumming of emotion he had been quietly enjoying all morning abruptly faded. He glanced over to see that Menace (Good Lord, that name) was also fast asleep at the foot of the bed. All was quiet. Aziraphale sighed and carefully moved the still mostly-full teacup from his husband’s lap back to the tray.

Truth be told, even he didn’t have much motivation to get up today. Especially when there were such delights to be had right here in bed. He nibbled at a biscuit while he re-played some of those very recent delights in his head, and the memory sent a warm shudder coursing through him. As wonderful as it was to let Crowley spoil him all the time, sometimes his demon needed the favour returned. It had been incredibly satisfying on multiple levels; seeing him so relaxed and happy was the most lovely thing in the world. It was doubly lovely to get to actually feel Crowley’s love and happiness pouring forth like a strain of beautiful music, and goodness had it been loud today. Crowley was not a subtle person- his feelings practically shouted. Aziraphale could always sense love to some degree if he was paying attention, but when he really opened himself up and _listened_ for it, like he did during lovemaking…it was the most marvelous thing, like standing in a warm wind. The feelings his husband emitted then were nearly tangible.

Naturally, he’d never bothered to mention any of this to Crowley himself. It would only embarrass him, and he didn’t want him to try and tamp it down.

His neck was starting to develop a cramp, so he put his arms around the slender form and eased them both down to lie more comfortably flat. He wiggled a little closer and nuzzled at his throat, feeling the press of that glorious fever-warm body all along his own. Mmm. Maybe he would just curl up with him and read for a few hours in the sunshine.

He stealthily reached over the sleeping form to snag another biscuit off the tray, and just lay there eating it for a minute. Contentment was apparently the greatest soporific, for he was in serious danger of becoming as lazy as his demon.

The demon in question made a small noise and shifted in his sleep. “Love you, m’angel,” he mumbled. He followed that up with something unintelligible that sounded like “ _ml_ _erg, blah,_ ” before rolling over to press his face against his bare chest. One knee unexpectedly came up to slot between his thighs, making him flinch as it nearly smacked into the dangerous areas before hooking around his leg. Crowley looked scrunched and awkward and ungainly lying there like that, like a spider folded in half, and Aziraphale had to muffle a laugh in his hair.

_Angel_. It had taken him far, far too long to realize that it was a term of endearment. For all those years he had assumed Crowley used it instead of his name to distance him. As a way to remind him of what he was, and who they were supposed to be to each other.

Sometimes he felt so very, very stupid.

“I love you too, darling,” he whispered. “My beautiful love.” He smoothed back the russet hair, which had grown out a bit shaggy in recent months, and walked his fingers across the sharp planes of his shoulders. Crowley was all bony angles and lines in direct contrast to himself, and God help him, he absolutely adored it. He adored his ridiculous swagger, the way he stumbled through life like an idiot yet still managed to land on his feet every time. He admired his reckless courage, so much stronger than his own. The way he could spit in the eye of danger and all expectation with a smirk and toss of his immaculately-styled head, and look so painfully _good_ doing it. Good Lord, did he look good doing it. It almost hurt to look at him.

He had always tried so hard not to look, not to like it, but heavens, had he ever failed. _Thank_ heavens he had failed, for in failing he had been set free in a way he could never have imagined. It nearly made him sick, now, to think of how much energy and time he had wasted trying not to be in love. If there was ever an award for idiotic mental gymnastics, he deserved it. He had managed to convince himself that their Arrangement was purely practical, that their time spent together was strategic and had nothing whatsoever to do with actually enjoying his company. He had told himself, rather desperately, that what he was feeling flowing from Crowley could _not_ be love, for of course demons could not love. Naturally not! It was just part of the demonic nature, a siren song designed to lure him from safety and drown him in the depths. Just another tempting trick from the wily adversary, of course. As an angel of the Lord it was his solemn, sacred duty to be stronger than temptation and to protect humanity from infernal influences- what kind of disgraceful angel was he, to be so weak?

So he had told himself, over and over and over again.

And so, he had stomped down his misgivings and thrown up walls around his heart; he had done as he was told and swallowed his own sick dismay as the feelings only grew stronger. Never mind that Crowley seemed to understand him like no one else ever had. Never mind that the demon’s behavior seemed far beyond simple friendliness. Never mind any of it. He had firmly averted his gaze and sweated through his fine clothes whenever he smiled like that at him, had ignored how painfully fast his heart beat whenever Crowley showed up (entirely by accident, of course) to save him. He had played the good soldier, and carried the secret shame of his failure like a heavy stone in his soul.

Worst of all, he had hurt Crowley, over and over again. As it turned out, the thing he had needed saving from most was himself.

So very, very stupid. And so very, _very_ lucky.

Suddenly unable to resist, he tilted up Crowley’s face and kissed him, urgent yet gentle, and even in sleep Crowley kissed him back. Their mouths fit together so effortlessly, as if custom-made for each other. He took his time, savouring the familiar taste of him, gently sucking on his lower lip and tangling his fingers in his hair. He tasted the way he smelled, of woodsmoke and musk and everything that was exciting in the world. For a second he hoped he would wake up and look at him, but Crowley only went slack again and let out a light snore. Aziraphale sighed.

At least now they had all the time they needed to make up for his stupidity. Frankly, heaven itself didn’t hold a candle to this. Their days here were full of afternoon tea and fine dining, of day trips to the coast and evening jaunts to the cinema. Now that the weather was a bit warmer they could start going on picnics as well. Crowley was eager to expand Aziraphale’s knowledge of action movies, a genre that he found slightly baffling, and Aziraphale was doing his best to introduce his demon to the infinite joys of reading. They were both having only minimal success, but honestly most of the fun was in the trying.

There was also quite a lot of sex. That was an unexpected joy of a different kind, and that side of things only seemed to be getting better and better if he did say so himself. The delight they took in each other’s bodies was still fresh and bright as burnished copper, a sparkling font of excitement to garnish each perfect day. He had thought he knew every line of Crowley’s body already, but over the last year he had discovered exactly how incomplete that knowledge was. Now he had learned what pleasure looked like on him, knew exactly where to touch him to make him gasp (which, in fairness, seemed to be almost anywhere). And as for Crowley…well. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, remembering. Crowley had learned _fast_.

It had been an entirely different education for both of them, this language of hands and tongues and other things. That education had been so frequent and enthusiastic that he would almost certainly be half his current size by now if not for all that constant fine dining, not to mention the more recent breakfasts in bed. Aziraphale rolled onto his back a little more and slid his hands under the silk dressing gown, over the smooth, warm skin of Crowley’s back, and felt his breath catch as he ventured lower. Oh, but he was beautiful. Every time he touched him still felt like the first. And there had been so many, many firsts over the last year, so many new things to try as they navigated this new chapter of their lives together.

He knew the other angels would never understand any of this. No doubt they considered him utterly insane at best and corrupted at worst, but he no longer cared. The angels had always looked askance at his perceived weakness for human life, had always tugged him back and away from the things he cared for. Had tethered and made him feel small. But Crowley…Crowley gave a voice to all the half-formed doubts, all the inarticulate longings that had churned in his deepest self all his life. The gangly, ridiculous demon loved him regardless of his failings and idiosyncrasies and all the times he had hurt him. Around him he never felt a need to be anything but himself. Crowley gave him his wings and let him fly.

He was _free_.

He liked to think (or at least desperately hoped) that the Almighty understood, seeing as She had created all of this to begin with, but Her silence on the matter left a lot open to interpretation. That hurt. He mostly just tried not to think about it.

Aziraphale tugged at the thin black fabric, loosening it and pulling it away from Crowley’s back.

“Darling,” he whispered. He said it again, until those luminous yellow eyes slitted open and fixed on his face. “Darling, let me see your wings.”

Crowley raised a sleepy eyebrow at him, then closed his eyes and pressed his face back to his chest. Enormous, ink-black wings unfurled from his shoulder blades and stretched out lazily, one at a time, casting long shadows across the room. Aziraphale gently pulled one wing toward him and ran his fingers through it with a motion like playing a harp, admiring how the morning light rippled across the feathers. They seemed far glossier than usual, somehow; the golden sunlight was transmuted to a silver-blue shimmer wherever it touched. He stroked the top of each wing with the palm of his hand, and smiled to see goosebumps crop up all along Crowley’s shoulders. This was one of his favourite things. The wings were a manifestation of their true forms, nearly their souls, and letting someone touch them was in some ways more intensely intimate than sex. Not sexual in and of itself, but just…intimate. Like letting someone listen to you sing for the first time, or confessing a deeply-held secret. With the wrong person it would have been a horrible feeling, but with the right one…

The demon’s arms slowly tightened around his waist. He gave no other indication that he was awake, but that thrum of love suddenly rose once again, flowing out in a steady stream and intensifying until it filled Aziraphale’s entire awareness. His very blood sang with it. He smiled and lay there with his eyes closed, holding Crowley snug against his chest with one arm and stroking his wings with the other hand. Barriers down and senses open wide, drifting in the warm currents of emotion. Feeling that siren song eddy and flow around him and sink into his bones.

It was just past nine in the morning.

When the small pendulum clock on the wall struck the half hour, they were both still lying there in bed, fast asleep. Crowley was snoring loudly, head propped on Aziraphale’s chest, the black wings open and askew across the blankets. One of the angel’s hands was still buried to the wrist in the feathers. As it turned out, Aziraphale didn’t mind sleeping late when there was someone worthwhile to do it with.

Illustration by [Alice Rovai](https://instagram.com/alicerovai?igshid=3ujbh8kz3b5n)

* * *


	2. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Angst incoming!!

* * *

  
“Don’t do this,” Crowley begged.

They sat facing each other over the small sitting room coffee table, only a couple feet apart. Crowley’s gaze was locked onto the angel’s, imploring. “Just give me more time. I know I can do better.”

“Oh for _heaven’s_ sake.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair. “You’re being very dramatic. You had to have seen this coming a mile away. It was perfectly obvious.”

“Maybe to you.” Crowley grimaced and rubbed at his eyes. “It’s not fair. You’re so much better at this than I am.”

Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders, looking down at the table. “Well, that is to be expected. I have had a lot more experience.”

“Yeah, about that. Experience with _who_ , I’ve been meaning to ask?”

“You’re stalling. Stop making such a fuss. It’s over.”

“Ngk. It doesn’t have to be.”

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation, and reached out to move his black rook over three spaces on the board. “Checkmate,” he said firmly.

“Dammit.” Crowley scowled down at the table. He picked up his glass of Chardonnay and drained it in a single irritated gulp. “Dammit, dammit, damn it all...I was so sure I had you that time.”

“That’s three in a row,” Aziraphale said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, rolling his own wine glass stem between his fingers. A smug little smile played about his lips. “Would you care to try again?”

“Ngghh.” Crowley made a disgusted noise, still staring at the wreckage of what he had thought was a pretty good strategy, scattered over the board in front of him. “No, I think I’ve been sufficiently humiliated for the day.” He stood and stretched, working out the stiffness in his back from sitting hunched for so long. He glanced down at Aziraphale to find him grinning at him, altogether too pleased with himself. “You could have gone just a little easy on me,” he grumbled.

“I thought a wily devil like yourself shouldn’t need it. Besides, you won’t learn if I let you win all the time.”

“All the time?” He wanted to keep scowling at him, but the angel’s smile was infectious, and he felt one corner of his mouth turning up against his will. “You never let me win.” He actually strongly suspected that every rare game he _had_ won was a deliberate concession, but his pride was bruised enough without confirming that theory. He was starting to realize that forward thinking was not his strongest attribute.

Aziraphale stood as well and came over to slip his arms around his waist, pressing his upturned nose to his cheek. Crowley felt his frustration melt into the familiar glow of affection. It was impossible to stay irritated with Aziraphale, especially when he knew full well that he would sit and let the angel thrash him at the game a dozen more times if it would make him happy. That knowledge in itself was pretty irritating.

He sighed, resigned, and put an arm around his shoulders. “I think I’m getting better, at least.”

“Oh yes,” the angel nodded encouragingly. “Most definitely. That round lasted almost thirty minutes.”

“Ugh. You can stop trying to make me feel better now.”

Aziraphale just grinned and kissed him on the cheek, then scooped up their empty glasses and headed towards the kitchen.

Crowley stood there squinting down at the board with arms folded for a minute or two longer, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, then sighed. He knocked over the white king with a resigned flick of his forefinger, then wandered after Aziraphale.

The angel was already at the sink washing out the wine glasses. He always insisted that magic didn’t get them _properly_ clean in quite the same way, but Crowley was pretty sure that he just enjoyed doing the simple task. He leaned his hip against the marble countertop and watched him for a moment. The last rays of evening sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window, gleaming on the copper tap and running water, turning the blue shirt almost white and illuminating the blond hair until it glowed. Aziraphale had his sleeves rolled up _(damn...)_ to avoid splashing them, and was busily polishing one glass dry with a soft cloth and a serene expression. He looked beautiful and happy and completely in his element. Human life really did suit him.

The angel glanced sideways and caught him watching. His cheeks turned ever so slightly pink. “What are you smiling at?”

He looked him very deliberately up and down, and didn’t avert his gaze. “You.”

The glass was surely dry by now, but he kept polishing away, and the blush deepened to a rich rose. It was so endearingly easy to fluster him, even after all this time.

Crowley smirked and came over to press against him from behind, easing his arms around his waist. He gently took the very polished glass from Aziraphale’s hand and set it on the counter next to the sink, then pulled him close and touched his lips to the side of his neck. Now he was thinking about their wonderful, lazy morning, about the long hours they had spent tangled up in bed with his mouth just like this. One of his hands slid up under the velvet waistcoat of its own accord, and he smiled when the angel put his own hand atop it to keep it there. He kissed his neck again and hooked a forefinger in the collar, tugging playfully. “Mm. You know, I think you’d be loads more comfortable if you just…” He reached around and plucked open the top button of the shirt, pulling it down just enough to reach more skin with his lips.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. His ears were still quite pink. “Why don’t you go upstairs and draw us a bath?” he suggested, overly casual. “We have the rest of the evening with no plans. I can join you as soon as I finish cleaning these.”

Crowley bit his lip, and with a great effort managed to reply more or less calmly. “That’s not a terrible idea at all.” He had scoffed at first when Aziraphale insisted on buying the ridiculously huge, freestanding tub, wondering why the hell anyone needed such an elaborate setup just to get clean. To his shock and very pleasant surprise, it had quickly become clear that getting clean was not exactly what Aziraphale had in mind.

“Mmhm.” Aziraphale suddenly spun around, grabbed him behind the neck and kissed him, hard. Before Crowley could react he had released him and sidestepped to the sink. “Go on, get up there.” He grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously as he picked up the other wine glass. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Oh, I guess. If you insist.” Crowley grinned back, heart still leaping, and turned on his heel to saunter casually through the sitting room towards the stairs, thumbs hooked into his pockets. But only because it would look far too stupid to run.

* * *

Aziraphale was having the most excellent day.

They had slept in so very, very late, staying in bed until nearly eleven for heavens sakes. Though he certainly wasn’t complaining. They had followed that up with a superb (late) Italian lunch, where he was pleased to find that the glowing restaurant reviews had not lied. Now he was comfortably settled into his favourite tartan armchair, a small glass of dessert wine in hand and a good book on his lap, with the prospect of even better activities to follow. The fresh, earthy smell of greenery drifted in from the next room, and through the ajar door he could glimpse vibrant emerald leaves and even a few pink blossoms. Crowley had expanded his plant collection quite a lot in the last month, and had quickly transformed the small Garden Room (as he privately thought of it) into the most beautiful place in the house. Menace was curled up and snoring softly on his little tartan cushion by the fireplace. The cat’s faint wheeze was audible even across the room, and Aziraphale smiled fondly.

Lovely, he thought as he opened the book. It was all just absolutely lovely.

The spell was broken by a brisk knock at the front door. He looked up, frowning. They weren’t expecting any deliveries, and certainly no visitors. Perhaps it was one of the human neighbours wanting to…to borrow a cup of salt? Wasn’t that something that humans did sometimes? Yes, he was certain he had read about that at one point. Best not to be rude. He set down his wine and book with a sigh, then stood and made his way through the kitchen towards the entryway, wondering idly if they even had enough salt. He supposed he could always miracle some up if they were short. Why would anyone even need a full cup of salt, anyway? It then occurred to him- if it _was_ a neighbour, was he expected to invite them in for tea as well? He probably should, just to be safe, but blast it, he had been really looking forward to that bath. No, to hell with them, they could come for tea another time.

He arranged his face into what he hoped was a pleasantly nonthreatening neighbourly smile, and opened the front door.

There was no one there.

He blinked bemusedly and glanced around for a moment, but the porch was indeed empty. Hm. Perhaps he had taken too long. He shut the door with a shrug, figuring that if they still really needed salt all that badly they could go buy some.

He returned to the sitting room and settled happily back into his chair, glancing up at the ceiling as the distant sound of running water began. It was a very big tub and the taps were slow, so he figured that he had plenty of time to finish his wine and read a bit before the bath was good and ready. He contentedly sipped while he read, though it was rather difficult to focus on the story. His thoughts kept drifting away from _The Odyssey_ and to the demon waiting upstairs instead.

After a chapter he glance at the mantel clock, which showed that it had been about fifteen minutes - perfect. He drained the last dregs of his wine and carefully placed a leather bookmark on the page. He stood, empty glass in one hand and the book in the other, and had to brace himself against the chair for a second as a wave of dizziness washed over him. _Goodness._ The wine had packed a far stronger punch than he had expected; he should eat something to balance it out. In fact, he should bring some biscuits and wine upstairs to enjoy together, since they were likely to be up there for a while. He wouldn’t mind being a little drunk in the bath, no indeed. Smiling at the idea, he headed towards the kitchen. Halfway across the room a stronger wave hit him, and he stopped again, hand and book pressed on the dining table for balance, waiting for the spinning to stop. To his consternation, it only grew worse, and the room began to tilt strangely as well.

 _What on earth…?_ Beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he wiped them away. The motion took far more effort than it should have; he gazed in confusion at his hand, blinking slowly. He hadn’t had nearly enough wine for this. Was he ill? Impossible. Angels didn’t get ill. Not once in his thousands of years had he got so much as a cough. The dizziness increased sharply, and both glass and book fell from his hands as he sank to one knee.

Something was...wrong.

Alarmed now, he forced himself to his feet, head spinning, and staggered over to the counter where the phone sat. Crowley. He needed to call Crowley. His thoughts were running in senseless circles, but that was the one thing he knew with absolute certainty. He reached out his hand, but now there were two phones and he couldn’t figure out which one to grab. Wait, no, Crowley was already here. He just needed to call out his name. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t remember what he had been going to say. Sweat was pouring down his back from the simple effort to remain upright. His knees abruptly gave out and he dropped partly to the floor, barely managing to cling to the edge of the marble countertop.

Darkness was creeping in around the edges of his vision, like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and he slid down to his hands and knees as his arms finally failed. It was too difficult to lift his head, and the room was spinning so hard now that it was only a blur of colours. He had to do something. Maybe if he just… He lifted one hand to try to use his power for...for something, and the movement sent the world lurching sharply to the left, tilting, tilting-

“ _Crowley_ ,” he gasped out. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. His head struck the corner of the cupboard hard as he fell, and then there was nothing at all.

* * *

Crowley sat bored on the edge of the white porcelain tub, watching the water slowly ( _so_ slowly) rise and browsing idly on his phone. This would go so much faster if he just miracled the tub full, but Aziraphale was insistent that they try and get used to doing things the human way when they could. It was to avoid suspicion and, most importantly, to avoid too much attention from either Headquarters. He supposed he had a point, but sometimes the human way was just so damn inefficient.

He tapped his foot impatiently and set out a couple of thick fluffy towels on the little tufted vanity bench, then went and closed the gauzy white curtains. The bathroom was not large, but luxuriously appointed, with the enormous clawfoot tub dominating the centre of the marble floor. He had found it was a _very_ nice place to spend an hour or two. Or three. One perk of being a demon was that they never needed to worry about the water growing cold, no matter how long they stayed in.

The water finally, finally reached the right height, so he turned the brass taps shut and began pulling off his clothes. 

“Hey angel,” he called as he tugged his t-shirt over his head. “We’re all set.”

He dropped the shirt carelessly to the floor and then, as an afterthought, added a couple drops of that lavender scented oil that Aziraphale liked to the steaming water. He stripped off his jeans and other sundries and put one foot over the edge, testing the water, then stopped. He looked up, frowning and glancing around.

Something was different.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something suddenly felt…off. Like a high-pitched sound just on the edge of his hearing, or a single note of music slightly out of tune. He stood there with one leg in the tub, head cocked uncertainly to the side, body tense and listening. There was only the slow, echoing drip of the tap, and he noticed for the first time the uneasy quality of the silence. A full silence sounds markedly different from an empty one, and the house was just...a bit too quiet.

“Aziraphale?” he called louder, warily. Nothing. Not a rustle from downstairs. It was not so large a house- they should have been able to hear each other easily. A cold tendril of foreboding crept down the back of his neck.

For the first time in quite a while he extended his supernatural senses and sniffed carefully, and immediately caught an acrid whiff of sulfur, along with something sharp and sour and rotten. A terrifyingly familiar smell that sent dread slithering down his spine.

Demons.

The cold tendril became an arctic gale. He leapt out of the tub, nearly falling as his wet foot slipped on the tile floor, and had his clothes instantly back on with a snap of his fingers. “Aziraphale!” he shouted. “Angel, we have one hell of a probl-”

There is a moment, when you trip. A frozen, breathless instant where your stomach catches and your heart sinks, the sickening half-heartbeat when your body knows something is terribly wrong, but before the drop. That feeling suddenly surged in Crowley’s mind, and he had only the briefest warning as the smell assailed his nostrils again. He threw himself to the side on pure instinct, and a split second later a crowbar swung directly through the place where his head had been. The metal bar slammed into the tub instead, cracking the edge and gouging out a chunk of the porcelain. Crowley managed to turn the throw into an ungainly roll and came to a jarring stop against the bathroom wall. He scrabbled around on his knees and lurched to his feet, one arm flung out for balance, and whirled to face-

Crazed black eyes, pale hair. Nasty skin rot. Hastur. Of course it was Hastur, why did it _always_ have to be him? Wearing that stupid mackintosh and an expression that could have curdled milk, holding the crowbar that had narrowly missed turning his head into goo.

“Crawly,” he growled.

“Hiya Hastur,” he replied breathlessly, feigning cockiness with the ease of long practice. “You know, it’s considered polite to knock.” He quickly stepped over to put the tub between them. It was a pathetic barrier, but it was all he had. _Stall him_. If he could just stall him long enough, then Aziraphale would have time to hear them and get up here. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to get a look at me starkers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but I don’t think that you’re my-”

“Shut up.” Hastur took a step towards him, around the tub, and Crowley circled warily as well. He placed his feet carefully on the wet floor, acutely aware that a slip would be deadly right now.

He needed to keep him talking. “I thought we had settled this already; are you really so eager for round two?”

Hastur matched him step for step, crowbar held at ready, predatory as a shark. “Nothing is settled. They blamed _me_ for you messing everything up last year.” He feinted to the side, toying with him. “Do you know what they do to you when they’re angry? You’re about to find out.” He tapped the metal bar threateningly against the side of the tub. “And I’m going to watch.”

“I told you lot to leave me alone. I’m out.” Crowley was getting angry. How many times was he going to have to say this before it got through?

Hastur chuckled. “You’re a demon, you can’t be _out_ , you arrogant bastard. Your soul is spoken for. And they’re going to crush it like a bug.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Crowley said tightly. “Least of all them. I choose to not play their games any more. You would too, if you had half a brain in your head.” _Where_ was Aziraphale? He was swiftly running out of conversational topics. He raised his voice a bit as he shuffled sideways. “Why don’t you just give this whole revenge thing up, go on holiday, eh? You look like you’ve been working hard. Looking a bit peaky, really; some sun would do you good,” he babbled. “Maybe take up a hobby.” 

“You’re stalling.” Hastur was smirking now. He spun the crowbar casually in his hand. “Waiting to be rescued again? No angel’s coming to save you this time. I saw to that.”

Crowley went cold, and a razor pang of terror lanced through his guts before he could control it. “What did you do to him?” The moment the words left his mouth he wanted to bite his tongue off.

Hastur’s chin jerked up, black eyes widening. His nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s, and he stopped dead. “Ahhhhhh,” he sighed, and his pale lips split into a gruesome facsimile of a smile. “True fear. _There_ it is, finally. Now _that’s_ interesting.”

Creepy bastard. Crowley swallowed and tried to get his galloping pulse under control. That had been a terrible mistake. When you lived in Hell, where everyone around you could sense fear and hatred and was out to get you as well, it was basic self-preservation to keep your emotions tightly in check. He knew that better than anyone, but there he had gone, letting it all flare out like a freshly-Fallen idiot. The last thing he wanted was his enemies understanding the depths of his feelings for Aziraphale. From the dawning gleam in the tar-pit eyes, he had the sick sense that it was far too late.

Hastur was just standing there looking at him, smiling that awful smile and revealing blackened, rotted teeth. Ugh. Crowley winced. He was certain Hastur must practice that expression in the mirror, because no one could look that theatrically evil without trying.

The gleam in those empty eyes grew brighter. “Well, well,” he said, voice thick with dark amusement. The hand with the crowbar hung limp at his side, momentarily forgotten. “All this time I thought that you’re just sticking with the filthy little flapper to protect your own hide. But you really _care_ , don’t you?” He made the word a sneer. “Do you actually think he cares about you? A Fallen? You’re a delusional fool, Crawly.” He sounded delighted, though, and Crowley’s sense of having misstepped increased tenfold. He wrestled his alarm down while Hastur just stood there watching him with that infernal grin. This was bad. If Aziraphale really wasn’t coming...then it was time to get creative.

All their circling had put his back to the bathroom cupboard, just a foot or so behind him, which if memory served should be full of cleaning supplies. Aziraphale insisted on stocking the useless stuff “just in case.” In case of what was still a great mystery, but at the moment it might actually come in handy. As he recalled, there was an unmarked spray bottle full of clear cleaning solution....

Without taking his eyes off Hastur he reached back and opened the cupboard door, and groped around inside until his fingers closed on the neck of the spray bottle. He whipped it out and pointed it across the tub. A distant part of his mind found it almost funny that he was being forced to fall back on the exact same ruse as last time. The universe had a very sick sense of humour sometimes. 

“Now what’s this? More bluffs?” Hastur hadn’t moved, and was eyeing him appraisingly. 

Crowley tried on a smile of his own, showing all his teeth. “Oh, I was never bluffing before. You saw for yourself, this stuff can’t hurt me anymore. But it can hurt you...” He jerked the bottle towards Hastur tauntingly, and grinned wider as he flinched a little.

Hastur stared at him, looking wary but unafraid. “Even if it’s real, you’ve only got one shot, Crawly.”

Ugh. He twitched in instinctive irritation. How he _hated_ that name. “So have you.” He sloshed the bottle. “So, I’ll ask you again: do you still feel lucky?”

Hastur just kept watching him for a moment, then that unsettlingly knowing smirk abruptly returned. “Ok, I’ll leave. I’ll see you soon.” He twiddled his fingers at him, made a clenched gesture with his hand at his side, and abruptly sank down through the marble floor and vanished. Crowely stared at the spot, then quickly ran over and jumped up onto the tiny bench, scanning the floor uncertainly. Only senior demons could travel that way, and he wasn’t sure how it worked- demons weren’t big on sharing trade secrets with each other. Had Hastur dropped through the ceiling downstairs? Was he about to pop back out of the ground like a damn gopher? He waited for a minute, perched there like an oversized crow, darting looks around the room and holding the bottle at ready (for all the good it would do), but nothing happened. He sniffed, and realized the demon-stench had faded away to almost nothing.

Rather than fill him with relief, all it evoked was more jangling dread. Hastur should have been much more reluctant to flee; he had gone far too easily. Something was very wrong. And that comment about Aziraphale was still echoing in his ears, churning his stomach.

“Angel?” he shouted. “Aziraphale!” Still no answer, damn it. He hopped down from the bench, gopher-demons be damned, and ran across the hall. He checked the bedroom and the library, urgently calling his name, and oh, didn’t _this_ feel horribly familiar now. He sprinted down the stairs, heart pounding, looking frantically around and trying not to panic. The demon-stink was stronger down here, nearly overpowering to his wide-open senses. Maybe it had been a bluff, he thought wildly. It had to be. Surely Hastur couldn’t have actually done anything to him, not to an angel. Maybe Aziraphale had just gone for a walk. Or maybe even looking at the plants? He made for the small door on the other side of the sitting room, and that’s when he spotted the wine glass.

It lay on the floor next to the dining table, between the sitting room and kitchen, and had broken almost neatly in two when it fell. A sudden suspicion pricked at him. He picked up the glass and sniffed it- and had to suppress a gag. Drugged, for sure. He stared at it in disgust and dismay. So that’s what Hastur had meant. He wasn’t sure which drug, but he had seen enough abuses in his demonic years to know it must be one of the nasty medical ones, probably multiple nasty medical ones. It would have had to be potent, strong and fast enough to take down an angel before he could think to heal himself. “Aziraphale?” he called again, looking around. He must be lying somewhere, incapacitated. He had to find him; he couldn’t be far.

He started towards the front of the house- and stopped dead.

A dark stain on the floor, right by the kitchen counter. He walked slowly, unsteadily over, heart in his mouth, as an icy fist closed around his chest. He knelt down and reached out as if in a dream to touch it.

Blood. A large, fresh pool of it about twice as big as his spread hand. Definitely Aziraphale’s; he could smell that from here. It was slightly smeared on the wood floorboards, as if someone had fallen and then been pulled roughly away.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, frozen in horror and numb disbelief, staring at the spots of wet crimson on his fingertips. There was a searing pain in the place where his heart should be, and a distant part of his mind howled in agony. _No. No. Nonononono..._ He clutched at his face with shaking hands, and was appalled to realize he had just smeared himself with Aziraphale’s blood.

This was impossible. It had never occurred- he had never _dreamed_ that Hastur would go this far. Demons did not kill angels, not ever! And not just because they were so hopelessly outclassed – if any demon were unlucky enough to actually succeed it would incur the very personal wrath of _all_ the other angels. Heaven got very tetchy about anyone other than themselves discorporating their own. The clannish bastards considered themselves inviolate; any murder had to be ordered and properly _sanctioned_. Killing one, directly, outside the bounds of war, would be suicide. They would be hunted down like a rat and slowly drowned in holy water.

Hastur must think he could get away with it, somehow. Or maybe he had simply gone mad from hatred. Either way, Crowley realized with horror, he must have decided it was worth the risk once he sensed how he felt about Aziraphale.

His chest was full of broken glass. He couldn’t breathe. The smell of ash and soot rose to choke him, and he slumped to the ground. If there was one thing Hastur enjoyed and was good at, it was hurting people. And upstairs just now he had shown him exactly how to hurt him most; he might as well have flown a banner advertising it. How could he have been so, so impossibly _stupid_?

Hastur was right. He was a fool. This was all his fault.

Grief and self-loathing rose like bile in his throat, scalding. It was his responsibility to keep Aziraphale safe, and he had failed in the worst way. His own careless stupidity, his lack of foresight, had delivered the one he loved straight into the hands of his enemies upstairs. He might be suffering even now, and it was only a matter of time before they tried hellfire on him again and destroyed his soul for good. He would never see him again.

A paperback book lay crumpled on the floor a couple feet away, spine creased in the way that upset his angel so much. He reached out with an unsteady hand to slide it towards him, and clutched it against his hollow chest. He would have very much liked to cry, but he was too empty even for that.

 _So this, then, is Judgment_ , he thought numbly. The payment for all the sins he had committed over the millennia, his final comeuppance. He had only been granted a brief reprieve after all. It had simply been too good to be true.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hunched over the book, immobilized by searing grief. Time no longer had meaning. Nothing mattered anymore. Perhaps if he stayed here long enough he would turn to stone, and not have to feel. All was darkness and ashes, because demons had killed his husband. They had killed his soft, kind, perfect Aziraphale, and left him alone in the universe.

_HELLO, CRAWLY._

The guttural voice crackled out of his cell phone, lying on the floor where it had fallen out of his jeans pocket. Hastur, of course. Come to gloat, using the very technology that he had suggested way back when. More karma, he supposed. He didn’t bother moving or opening his eyes.

_NO PITHY REPLY? UPSET, ARE WE?_

“You’re mad,” he said dully. It hurt to speak. “Completely mad. You know what will happen to you.”

_OH, HE’S NOT DEAD YET. BUT HE WILL BE IF YOU DON’T DO EXACTLY AS I SAY._

It took a second for the words to register. Then Crowley’s head jerked up and he stared at the phone, his heart thudding so hard that it hurt. Stupid, stupid hope. It was a lie, it had to be. Hastur surely had already killed him.

“Why should I believe that?” He hated how his voice shook.

Hastur didn’t answer, but kept talking.

_SEE, NOW YOU GET TO CHOOSE. I THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE THAT, SINCE YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT CHOOSING. YOU’RE GOING TO COME TO US AND GIVE YOURSELF UP. DO THAT AND WE’LL LET HIM GO. OR DON’T SHOW UP, AND I’LL KILL HIM. I MIGHT NOT EVEN HAVE TO; HE DURNT LOOK SO GOOD AT THE MOMENT. EITHER WAY, I’M HAPPY._

“Hastur, are you insane?” he hissed, actually daring to hope. “You can’t kill an angel. It’s not worth it.” 

_THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT TOO, THAT THERE WAS NOTHING TO GAIN. BUT THAT’S NOT TRUE, IS IT?_

Crowley felt sick.

_IT WOULD HAVE BEEN FUN TO JUST KILL YOU, BUT I LIKE THIS MUCH BETTER. I’LL GIVE YOU AN HOUR TO DECIDE. OH, AND CRAWLY? IF WE SEE YOU CARRYING ANYTHIN’, ANYTHIN’ AT ALL, WE’LL KILL HIM._

_Click_.

A moment later his phone pinged, and a text message alert popped up on the screen.

He sat there on the ground for a second, staring at it, then grabbed the phone and scrambled to his feet. He checked the text, which was blank except for an address and two words: COME ALONE.

Well. Look who had finally learned from their mistakes. Every time Hastur had come to Crowley in the past, he had been not only soundly defeated but humiliated to boot. It made sense that this time he would want to be on his own turf, holding all the cards. Crowley glanced down at the phone again and had to laugh, bitterly. For someone who had never watched a single film, Hastur sure hit all the clichés. Who, exactly, did he think he had to bring with him now? Alone was all he had left.

Of course he was going. What choice did he have? If there was even the faintest, most threadbare chance that Aziraphale was alive...and if he was dead then nothing mattered anyway, except revenge. Either way, he was going. The million-pound question was: what would he do once he got there? Trading himself in would achieve exactly nothing, that was for certain. He knew Hastur very well, and there was no way in hell the demon would bargain in good faith. _If_ by some miracle Aziraphale was still alive, Hastur would just kill him the moment he had Crowley in hand, probably right in front of him. He would make him watch, then kill Crowley in turn when he was done. It was all the kind of thing that Hastur would take dark delight in doing.

A sliver of fear managed to creep in through the despair. If he was killed, then the fun would _really_ begin. There was an entire multitude of bloodthirsty demons waiting in Hell, all eager to express their displeasure with him for averting their war. Demonic displeasure generally involved pain and screaming and sharp objects, for eternity. And he would spend that eternity knowing that Aziraphale might be enduring similar things.

There was a loud _thump_ right behind him and Crowley nearly achieved orbit as he jumped, nerves worn down to the raw. He whirled around, but it was only Menace knocking a book off the coffee table. He belatedly remembered to be worried for him; it would have been just like Hastur to kill his pet too. He grabbed the startled cat and hugged him tight to his chest, fighting irrational tears as the daft animal started to purr. At that moment it was shockingly reassuring to know there was at least one other creature in the universe who didn’t want him dead. Possibly the only one left, in fact.

After a few moments Menace began to struggle, so he set him carefully back down. The cat butted up against his leg and looked up at him with wide green eyes. Crowley scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, breathing hard through his nose and trying to get himself under control.

One hour. He set a timer on his watch, mostly just to have something to do with his hands. One hour to save his entire world, again. If it wasn’t too late already. If it wasn’t pointless. He stood there staring at the ticking down numbers, feeling the icy chokehold of despair. _Useless. Hopeless._ Every breath was a struggle, and he had to fight the temptation to sit back down and give up.

Despair is insidious, far more so than anything demons could ever dream up. Despair seizes you by the throat and hisses in your ear that this is how it always has been, that you were a naive fool to hope it could be different. It tells you that this is the true shape of the world and that you have simply had your eyes opened. That all joy is just a smokescreen to help ignore the terrible truth.

_But it is a liar._

The thought came from nowhere, like a whisper in his mind, and it had Aziraphale’s voice. He repeated it to himself over and over, like blowing on a spark until it caught fire. Crowley’s face hardened, and his bloodied left hand slowly clenched into a fist. He squeezed until all the knuckles popped, until he felt the angel’s gold ring dig into his fingers, using the pain as a catalyst. Despair was his oldest acquaintance, and it could go _fuck_ itself. Aziraphale was alive until proven otherwise. And as long as he was alive, no bloody half-wit idiot demons were going to take him away. The tiny flame grew larger in his chest, and that was good. Anger was better than sorrow at a time like this.

Menace pressed up against his leg again and yowled, probably sensing his distress.

“Sorry, friend,” Crowley whispered tightly. “I’ve got to go.” He bent and ran his fingers through the soft black fur one last time, then went to the back door and cracked it deliberately open. If he didn’t return, Menace at least would not be trapped in here.

He stopped and took one more look around, at the place that had been the closest thing to paradise he had ever known. He was coming back with Aziraphale or not at all. He would turn the world on its head and tear down the very stars from the sky if that was what it took.

And if he was- if he was already gone...then God have mercy on Hastur. Because Crowley would not.

He retrieved his dark glasses from the counter and slid them firmly onto his face, and stalked out of the house.

* * *


	3. Playing With Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being huge, about twice as long as intended, but...I regret nothing. Enjoy!

* * *

Crowley sat in the parked Bentley in front of the house, hands clutched white-knuckled on the wheel and trying to keep it together. So full of brittle energy that he might vibrate right out of his skin. He took himself by the resolve and gave it a good hard shake. Okay. Okay. Think. He’d been getting Aziraphale out of messes for hundreds of years; this was no different! This was just more of the same. Of course, this time he had the slight disadvantage of there being demons involved. And the fact that Crowley himself was personally a target. And the fact that they would be permanently separated if discorporated, with torture awaiting for at least one of them. And the knowledge that Aziraphale was already hurt (only hurt, he was _not_ dead, damn it). 

On second thought, maybe he should stop trying to reassure himself and just get the fuck _on_ with it. 

He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, fighting off needling jabs of panic. Was it really too much to ask for the angel to keep himself safe, for even a century or two? The impossible creature just couldn’t seem to avoid getting (nearly) discorporated at every turn; keeping him alive was practically his full-time job by now! 

Maybe he _could_ call someone. Enlist some help. Who, though? He ran through the list in his head, and it was a very short list. Certainly not the other angels. Shadwell? He was enthusiastic and mad enough; he’d surely jump at the chance to fight some demons…

Crowley groaned, and thumped his forehead on the wheel until he saw stars. No, if he got humans involved they’d just be killed outright before they could do anything. Most demons didn’t even blink at the idea of wiping out a few people. Or all of them. Even human police were useless; they would come expecting a firefight and instead find monsters and nightmares, and would be easy pickings. Humans were just cannon fodder and collateral damage in the great cosmic pissing match, and he wouldn’t be a part of that. He supposed he shouldn’t care, being a demon and all, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. And besides, Aziraphale wouldn’t want that. 

Right. So it was just him. Again. 

He stared blindly through the windscreen, feeling hollow and lost. When things went bad, Aziraphale was who he usually turned to for help or solace. But now he was alone, and if he didn’t think of something then he’d never see him again. It was becoming a sickeningly familiar feeling. 

He banged his forehead against the steering wheel again, hoping it might jostle loose a worthwhile idea, but only succeeded in making the horn beep. One hour. Fifty-five minutes, now, technically. There was no _time_ to plan anything clever. He looked up at the sky, which was quickly deepening from purple twilight to indigo. It would be dark soon. No doubt Hastur had planned it exactly that way, the melodramatic bastard.

Okay. Focus. What were his options? 

First of all, there was zero chance of just storming in and fighting his way through this. Hastur was far more powerful than he was, physically and supernaturally, and in a direct contest it would be like going up against a baseball bat with a fly swatter. Crowley couldn’t even really use his fly swatter, as the moment he used his power Hastur would sense and simply counter whatever he tried. 

Secondly, Aziraphale was drugged. And hurt- (no, _don’t_ think about _that_ ). So there was no help coming from that quarter. 

That left sneakery. His only hope, he decided, was some kind of distraction. With a good enough distraction, he just might be able to do...something. Anything. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking furiously. What he needed was something big and impossible to ignore...something that he could pull together in – _ugh_ – fifty-three minutes. Something that would be unexpected, flashy, loud, overwhelming enough to buy him some time. Something that demons wouldn’t anticipate. Huh...flashy and loud... 

He blinked as a mad thought burst in on him, then whipped out his phone and typed in the name of a shop he had only seen in passing, a couple years ago. He sat there staring at the search results, feeling the very first creeping beginnings of an idea. It was...a completely idiotic and insane idea. Not even solid enough to be called a plan. But in the absence of a good idea, a terrible one would have to do. 

The decision galvanized him; he let out a hard breath and turned the Bentley’s key in the ignition with a jerk. The engine turned over with an especially loud roar, as if it could sense his impatience, and he managed a half-smile. His Bentley had never once let him down. 

According to the phone’s navigation, the particular shop he was looking for was twenty minutes away. He snorted as he threw the car violently into gear. GPS systems could be _such_ pessimists. 

He got there in six minutes flat. 

He thundered down the swiftly-darkening streets of Southampton, glaring out the window at the passing buildings until he found – there! A smallish shop on the corner of a long, two-story brick structure. With a yank of the wheel he drove haphazard up onto the pavement, swerved to narrowly dodge a couple of screaming pedestrians, and blasted right through a wooden fence painted with the message “PLEASE DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF GATES.” He screeched to a halt in what was probably meant to be a garden area and leapt out of the still-running Bentley. He spared only a single anguished glance at the severely dented car, then he was striding purposefully towards the doors at the back of the building. It was past business hours and all was closed; the polite little sign said “No Entry – Use Front.” Crowley was not in a polite mood. He magicked the lock and kicked the door in with a single angry stomp. 

Less than ten minutes later he stalked out of the Southampton Firework Factory as security alarms blared, with a very large, full black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He grimly tossed it into the boot and slammed down the lid. 

He threw himself back into the driver’s seat, ignoring the distant sirens and rising shouts of consternation from the nearby houses, and took a second to breathe. So. He had his distraction. Now what the hell was he going to do with it? He still didn’t have a master plan. He only had – he checked his watch – thirty-four minutes and a car full of potential chaos, which could still easily rebound onto him. He growled in frustration and shook his head. There was no time to sit and think, he would just have to come up with something on the fly.

 _“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”_ A burly middle-aged man, possibly the shop owner, had come up and was hollering at him, pounding a furious fist on the car bonnet and threatening to put another dent in the much-abused paint. Crowley snarled at him through the windscreen, and the man abruptly had bigger things to worry about as his shoes caught fire. He yelped in surprise and fell over, and Crowley forgot about him. He was busy re-evaluating his life choices. 

He was about to ride into battle against a Lord of Hell with nothing but a bag of fireworks and his own burning determination. He had no real weapons at all. This was so, so stupid. Though not, he reminded himself, perking up a bit, _quite_ as stupid as driving his car straight through a wall of deadly Hellfire. Or facing the Devil himself with nothing but a tyre iron. And that had turned out alright, hadn’t it? Come to think of it, this didn’t even crack the top three dumbest things he had ever done. He found the thought oddly cheering. 

Ah, what the hell. It’s not as if he had done anything particularly clever in over a year; why start now? 

“Heigh ho,” he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath and slammed his foot on the accelerator, tearing backwards out of the destroyed garden with a screaming of wheels and burning rubber. He reversed and blasted down the street, past the newly-arriving police as if they were standing still, leaving nothing but dust and confusion in his wake.

———

The maps showed that the rendezvous spot was about thirty miles off from his current location. Hastur probably thought that was far enough away to where he would have to scramble to get there in time, never mind make any kind of plans. The last experience the senior demon had with cars was probably back when they were first invented. Needless to say, human transportation had evolved a bit since then. 

Crowley drove automatically at over a hundred and fifty miles per hour, dodging other vehicles, pushing the Bentley past its natural speed limits and barely paying attention to the road. Anyone watching would have seen not so much a car as a vaguely car-shaped black blur, trailing a thick cloud of exhaust as it zoomed past like a bat out of Hell. 

Left with nothing to do but drive and stew in his own thoughts, Crowley’s optimism wavered. The situation was dire. He was still hopelessly outgunned. Hastur was an idiot, but a powerful idiot, and every time he’d gone up against him he’d barely come away alive – mostly by luck or the help of others. There would be no others, this time. He _was_ the cavalry. 

His best chance, he realized (as he careened around a lorry, laying on the horn), was to try to get to Aziraphale and heal him enough to wake him up, so he could take on Hastur himself. The idea made him growl and smack the steering wheel; he _hated_ that that was his best option, but his arsenal was empty. His own power was next to useless, and he had no holy water. That bluff would not work a third time. They should have set some aside for contingencies, he thought in anguish. He should have anticipated something like this- he had _known_ this was a possibility. He had just chosen to ignore that possibility because... because... well. Because he had been happy. He had been so impossibly happy, and he hadn’t wanted to believe that anything could ever disrupt that. _Stupid._ He punched the dashboard in frustration, and the sharp pain felt like his just deserts. 

Maybe that was enough thinking for now. Fear and uncertainty were twisting like a shard of glass in his gut, tormenting him with constant unhelpful what-ifs. He shoved a CD into the player at random and blasted _Another One Bites the Dust_ loud enough to drown out most of his own thoughts as he thundered down the motorway. 

A few minutes later the navigation bleeped, alerting him that he was near. He took the exit and drove slowly along the side road, then pulled over about half a block's-worth before it told him to. He didn’t want to advertise his arrival- he still needed to look around and take stock of the situation before he could decide what to do. He could lurk as well as any demon, so it was time to do some strategic lurking. Crowley checked his watch again- he had just over twenty minutes left. He rubbed sweat off his forehead with his already-sweaty sleeve and got out of the Bentley. 

Dusk had finally deepened to true night, and for a moment he stopped and just gazed up at the sky. It was a beautiful cloudless evening, with thousands of brightly-visible stars scattered around a nearly-full moon. His gaze lingered on one particularly bright star in the northeast. All around him the crickets were out in force, filling the cool air with their chirping, and for a brief instant it was almost peaceful. It was the kind of night that Aziraphale would love. 

He shoved the thought away with a jerk of his head and retrieved the bag of fireworks from the boot, slinging it over his shoulder. A final deep breath, one last fond pat on the car bonnet for luck, and he began quickly walking down the dirt road, phone in hand, towards the place that the arrow on the map was pointing to. Luckily, dark didn’t pose a problem to his eyes. Even without the moonlight he could still see the place ahead of him perfectly clearly. 

The address he had been given didn’t exist yet, technically. He had arrived at what appeared to be a huge construction site, squatting in the middle of a big stretch of nowhere. It would eventually be some kind of...storage facility, maybe? Warehouses? But for now it was just a bunch of ugly skeleton buildings, still in the early stages of being built. Most were simply bare metal framework and scaffolding, though a few had rudimentary walls put up. It was a desolate and lonely-looking place. There was only the sound of the wind whistling through the vacant structures and the occasional flap of a hanging tarp. The rows of dark holes that would eventually be doors and windows gaped like empty eye sockets, looming silent and menacing as he passed. Crowley shook his head. Hastur really could pick ‘em.

He didn’t bother wondering where the meeting spot was. All was quiet and dark- except for one place. There, right up ahead. An enormous, low-slung building, the most central and developed of the lot, had a light on for him. Beckoning. 

The night air wasn’t cold, but Crowley shivered. This was it. Was he about to discover that Aziraphale was already dead? His feet stuttered to a stop at the thought and refused to move, and he stood frozen. He realized his hands were shaking. He glared at them and clenched them into fists, but it didn’t help. “Stop it,” he muttered aloud. “You’ve faced bad odds before. This is just more of the same, no worse.”

But that was a lie, and he knew it. Now that he had tasted joy, now that he had so very much to lose, it was far, far worse. For all those years he had tried to draw a protective shell around his emotions; it was much easier to deal with disaster when he could firmly tell himself that it didn’t make any difference. But now that shell had been cracked wide open, and his entire unguarded heart was exposed and more vulnerable than ever before. Losing Aziraphale once had nearly destroyed him. Now he stood on the jagged precipice of that horror again, and it left him feeling sick and helpless. To never hear his voice ever again. To never see him smile or laugh, to know that he might be suffering instead…and to know that it was his fault. Even the horror of what would come _after_ , should he fail, paled in comparison. 

He stood there and waited for the shaking to stop, for a heroic burst of courage, but it didn’t come. 

Well, fuck it. Sometimes the only way forward was forward, through weak knees and churning stomach and all of it. Sometimes courage came later.

Crowley forced his feet to move, and crept steadily and silently towards the lit building. It was the only one with all its walls already put in, if you could call thin sheets of some kind of rigid material "walls". There was a single huge gap cut in the very front wall, but he approached from the side, because only an idiot would walk in through the front. Whatever this place was going to be, it was definitely not designed with aesthetics in mind. It was stark and rectangular in shape, like a big ugly block of wood. Only the front thirty feet or so had any would-be windows cut out, so he made for one of those first. He was on high alert, feeling with both human and demon senses for any whiff of danger, but there was nothing so far. He paused to set the duffel bag down behind a large stack of lumber, then made his careful way up to the side of the structure, stepping as quickly as he dared. Thank Sata- _no, you know what?_ He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to hiss. Satan had done exactly shit for him, there was nothing to thank him for. Thank _goodness_ the ground was all clean poured cement, with no loose rock or other debris that might crunch and give away his approach. He prowled silently up to the nearest window and put his back to the rough wall, taking care to stay out of the light (though it wouldn’t make much difference; staying in the shadows was no protection here). He stretched up and just barely peeked over the edge of the square hole, and found himself staring into an empty area- perhaps a lobby?- separated from the main building by a single partition wall. There was a large, rough doorway cut into that wall as well, but he could see nothing from this angle. 

He listened as hard as he could, straining to hear something helpful, anything, but all he could really hear was the breeze whistling through the empty buildings and the _scree_ of the myriad damn crickets. One particularly enthusiastic cricket somewhere nearby started sawing away loud enough to drown out a firing squad. Crowley glared around in irritation, but the bug remained hidden and un-squashable. _Bloody countryside._ He tiptoed along the wall, away from the noise and towards the back of the building. It was a huge building, and he had gone a good long way until- there, faint voices. Multiple voices. It sounded like Hastur was not alone. Thankfully the walls were so thin that they didn't do much to muffle sounds. 

There was a crack in the wall just a little further down, a thin sliver of light against the black where the boards didn't quite fit together properly. Beads of sweat were trickling down the back of his neck, but now he kept an iron grip on his anger and fear. He pressed all the feelings down, down deep, letting them turn hard and cold inside, where they could not cause trouble. If Hastur sensed him now he was as good as dead. He took a deep breath to steady himself, unclenched his jaw with a sharp pop, and peered through the narrow gap. 

From what he could see, the place seemed to be mostly comprised of one huge, echoing chamber. It was empty except for stacks of lumber and construction pallets, and the occasional pile of debris. The exposed grid of metal ceiling beams high above had been strung with large halogen work lamps, which were currently providing the light. 

About thirty feet away, near the back of the room and far from any entrance, stood Hastur and his...entourage? Minions? Whatever. He didn’t know the other two demons standing next to him – one squat and dark-haired, the other tall, skeletally thin and bald – no doubt some lower-level underlings he had drafted into this mad scheme. They were all three lurking in the deliberately menacing way that only came with practice and dedication. Crowley gnawed his lip. Ugh. Three on one was not good odds. Hells, one on one wouldn’t have been good odds. Apparently Hastur wanted to be thorough. He _hated_ it when his enemies learned from their mistakes. His eyes slid past the three demons, and he stopped breathing.

About a dozen feet behind them, towards the corner of the room there was a chair, and Aziraphale was tied securely to that chair with his hands manacled behind his back. He was slumped forward against his bonds, blond head hanging limply with eyes shut. There was a cut on his forehead; dried trails of blood were crusted down his face and had dripped onto his trousers and velvet waistcoat. Alive. Surely still alive, or they wouldn’t have bothered restraining him. 

The relief was so overpowering that for a second Crowley feared he might faint. He leaned back against the wall and took a deep, shaky breath, and realized that he _could_ breathe again. He could suddenly think. The sure knowledge that Aziraphale was still alive was like a gust of fresh air across the dying coals of his heart, and it warmed him from head to toe. All was not yet lost. His pulse thudded so hard he was sure they could hear it in the next city, but now it was thudding with relief, not fear, so he wasn’t worried about Hastur sensing it. He gathered himself and looked again. 

From here it looked like the angel had only the one injury so far, but Satan knew what kind of other, more internal damage had been done. Crowley’s mouth hardened, and a cold rage began to take hold of him before he remembered to tamp it down with all the rest. They would pay for that.

He noted with a surge of warm pride that the demons were all keeping a wide berth from Aziraphale and casting him nervous looks, even tied and unconscious. He extended his senses once again and listened. It wasn’t hard; sound echoed and carried easily in the cavernous structure. 

“-smells disgusting in here,” the dark-haired demon was commenting, scuffing his shoe on the cement floor. 

The tall, thin demon standing near him grunted. “This is a mistake,” he muttered uneasily. “I didn’t sign up to kill one of _them_. Those high-and-mighty bastards aren’t going to let that slide.” His eyes and cheeks were sallow and unnaturally sunken, and combined with the bald head it gave him a corpselike appearance. He was shuffling restlessly from foot to foot and looked by far the most uncomfortable of the three. His black leather boots scuffed the cement floor, sending little puffs of dust into the air. 

Hastur spat. “Shut it. For the hundredth time, he hasn’t seen our faces. No one will need to know.” 

“ _You_ say.” 

Hastur growled warningly, and the lesser demon skittered back a step. “Bloody coward.” He walked over and gave Aziraphale’s limp form a sharp kick (though not without an instant of hesitation). “I owe him some pain. And I want to see the look on that unnatural traitor bastard’s face when we do it.” 

The dark-haired demon walked over as well, apparently emboldened when Hastur wasn’t immediately struck by lightning. He kicked the angel’s leg once, furtively, then again, harder, putting his back into it, and it took all of Crowley’s self-control to fight back another surge of hot fury. They would _pay_ for that.

“Always wanted to do that,” the demon said, grinning. He did take a few prudent steps back again, though. 

“He’s probably not gonna even come,” the bald demon muttered again, shaking his head. “Time’s almost up.” 

“Oh, he’ll come.” Hastur chuckled, and that was somehow more sinister than the growl had been. “I guarantee he’ll be here, any minute now. Don’t you trust me?” 

“Course not,” the other demon grunted. 

“Guess you’re not a complete idiot, then.” 

The gaunt demon bared his teeth at that and took a step forward. “Seems to me, you’re the one who let Crawly get the best of you, what, three times now?” When Hastur only glared, he pressed on. “You’re the one who’s been in the bad books for that. You’re the one who’s taking him on again, despite all of it. Seems to me, the idiot here is yo _aaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHRRRRGHHHHH!!!_ ” 

Hastur had seized him around the throat, and oily black smoke was billowing up from the point of contact. The taller demon screeched and gurgled and flailed, seemed to collapse inward, and ultimately dissolved into a small pile of dark ash. Hastur blew the residue off his hand contemptuously and looked at the other demon, who took a hasty step backward and raised his hands. 

Crowley had seen enough. He moved carefully away from the wall, then crept as quietly as he could back to retrieve his bag of fireworks. He slung the bag over his shoulder and crouched there hidden behind the lumber for a minute, fingertips braced on the ground and mind racing.

 _Two on one, now_. Well, at this rate the demons might solve his problem for him. How stupid did you have to be to wipe out your own crew? How many minions had Hastur started the evening with? Maybe if he waited long enough the rest would just kill each other off- Hastur wasn't exactly known for his even temperament. That was probably too much luck to hope for, though. 

Right, then. 

At least his lurking had confirmed what he strongly suspected- this was no authorized hit at all, not by the higher-ups, at least. Hastur had gone full rogue. While that was far better than having the entire forces of Hell after him, two was still twice as many as one of him, and would be a challenge. He bounced a little in place, trying to think.

Sneaking in from the back, like he had hoped to do, was no good. There were no doors or windows anywhere near Aziraphale, and a good stretch of open space between him and any of the walls. His chances of creeping in without being seen and grabbed were exactly nil. Using his demonic power in any way was no good, as Hastur would sense it immediately. Setting off the fireworks near the angel was too risky, too. Aziraphale wasn’t immune to fire, and a distraction was worse than useless if it killed him by accident. On that subject, if he showed his hand anywhere close to the angel, Hastur would just kill him anyway. So, that left him only one viable option: somehow, some way, both demons needed to be coaxed somewhere away from Aziraphale. 

The front area was his best bet, he decided. Lure them both into the front part of the building, hit them with the distraction, then while they were reeling make full-tilt for Aziraphale and hope he was the fastest runner in the room. And that he could heal him enough before they were both killed. The trouble with healing was that it required direct contact, but if he could just touch him once, and hit him with the biggest burst of healing that he could...

Crowley swallowed a pang of anxiety. Healing was…not really his strength. Demons weren’t exactly encouraged to develop their human body healing skills, and he was centuries out of practice. This was far more complex than a simple bruise, and Aziraphale’s natural angelic essence was going to strongly resist him. But it shouldn’t take much - just enough power to drive out the drugs from his blood and wake him up. No harder than sobering up after too much wine, really. If he was very quick, and very, very lucky, it might be possible. He chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. It was a plan, kind of. Not a great plan. It had maybe, at best, a twenty percent chance of success. Certainly not a very dignified plan, but one couldn’t have everything. 

Argh, but even that still hinged on separating the demons from Aziraphale in the first place! Hastur wouldn’t let that happen easily; he knew that the angel was his greatest insurance. Even if Crowley brought the entire damn construction site thundering down in flames, Hastur would just sit and wait out the chaos, knowing that Crowley would eventually have to come to him. There were very few things that would make Hastur budge from his prize...and Crowley had an unpleasant feeling that he knew what it would take. The realization made him break out into a fresh sweat. 

He would have to get caught, or make Hastur _think_ he was caught. If Hastur thought he had already won, he might just abandon Aziraphale for a few minutes....to come over and kill him. 

Shit. This was a _terrible_ plan. 

What else did he have, though? The thing about desperation was that it made even completely mad, lost-cause ideas seem plausible. And if there was ever a patron saint of lost causes on this miserable, brilliant little planet, it was him.

His legs were starting to cramp from crouching here like this. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. It was time to get on with it. He went to stand, then paused and looked up at the sky once more. “If you’ve got any luck to spare,” he muttered, “if I’ve got any little bit of credit accumulated whatsoever, if I’ve ever done one _single_ thing to make you hate me less, even for a second...I’d like to cash it in now. If it's all the same to you. Not for my sake, just...” He swallowed and shook his head in irritation. What was he doing? He might as well be muttering to an empty room. 

He stood up and silently walked towards the front of the building, shoulders hunched, feeling very cold and very alone.

———

Crowley flattened himself against the front wall and peeked through the enormous main entrance. The front area he had seen before was neatly divided from the rest of the building by that partition wall, only about ten yards across from him. That should work perfectly, if he could only get both demons in here. The opening to the main part of the building was dead centre, still just a rough square hole cut into the wall. Through it he could see piles of lumber and such, but nothing else, which was probably fortunate. If he had been at the right angle to see Hastur, they could have spotted him as well. 

If there was one advantage he had, at all, it was that he knew Hastur very well. He knew exactly how he operated. Hastur would never take any risk that he could fob off onto someone else, which made him very predictable. If Crowley lurked in the front area and...made some noise? Shouted insults, maybe? Hastur would never leave his hostage, but he would probably send his minion to investigate. At the very least, he would use said expendable minion to check and see if he had brought any holy water, letting the other demon bear the brunt of all the danger. If Crowley let that lesser demon catch him...for just long enough to make Hastur think he’d won...

He was counting on the fact that this demon wouldn't dare kill him without his boss's say-so; after all, this was Lord Hastur's show.

He would wait to use the fireworks until the very last second. This entire plan relied on the element of surprise, which fortunately should not be terribly hard to pull off. Hastur was expecting him to just walk right in there waving holy water for some big showdown, to possibly try to use his demonic powers. Probably involving a monologue or two. Hastur had an incredibly limited imagination. 

For starters, he was certain that Hastur had never imagined some of the stuff he had found in that factory. Crowley nervously re-positioned the bag on his shoulder a little. He only hoped it would be distracting enough. He had grabbed some of everything he could get his hands on, as much as would fit in the bag. Including the large-ish square cases intriguingly named “Doomsday”. The long list of warnings on the label had been gratifyingly emphatic. Crowley had never set off a firework before and wasn’t sure how much was needed, so he had grabbed five of them. It would have to do.

He took deep silent breaths, readying himself, and wrinkled his nose. Ugh. This entire place reeked so badly of demons that it constantly smelled like they were right in front of him. He had never realized quite how much he hated that smell. 

_Here goes nothing._

He sidled around the corner, into the room...and abruptly found himself face to face with the dark-haired lackey demon, lounging against the very same wall, picking at his fingernails and apparently on lookout duty. For a stunned instant they just stared at each other, then the other demon let out an excited bellow and grabbed for him. Crowley whipped himself to the right and narrowly avoided the grasping hands, spinning away from him in sheer panic. A tiny corner of his mind noted that this was, in fact, lucky; that this was exactly what he had wanted. Lucky, lucky him. This might not be how he had envisioned beginning, but by God he’d take it. He darted back, ducking and weaving as the shorter demon lunged for him with bright, overeager eyes, driving him further and further into the room. The unwieldy bag of fireworks was hampering his movement, so he let it drop to the ground. 

_Now for the tricky part._ He almost laughed out loud at the thought. There was no part of this that was not insane. With an internal sigh he stopped dodging, and stood still. 

A meaty hand seized him by the throat and lifted him easily off his feet. “Gotcha, you little shit." Red eyes gleamed as he grinned widely at Crowley, too wide, revealing a mouthful of teeth that were serrated and edged in black. Ugh, that was just unnecessary. _“I got him!_ ” the demon shouted over his shoulder. There was a pause, and Crowley waited, dangling there for what felt like eternity, listening as hard as he could. The timing of this was key.

Silence. Crowley began to fear that he had made a terrible miscalculation. Then, finally, a distant echoing shout. The sound of pounding feet- _that_ was what he had been waiting for. The demon’s thick fingers around his neck were like steel, far too strong a grip to break. He didn’t bother trying to break it. 

He knew most demons didn’t spend a lot of time running around on earth, so that meant they wouldn’t have the long-developed instincts to guard certain areas of the human body. Specifically the male human body. Crowley felt every inch the legendary hero as he kicked the shorter demon square between the legs with all his strength. The demon’s bloodshot eyes bulged, his face went white, and he opened his mouth but only a strangled wheezing sound came out. He let go of Crowley and sank slowly, almost gracefully to his knees. Crowley stepped forward and kicked him in the chest (Bruce Lee style, because whenever would he get another chance?), sending him toppling backward onto the ground near the partition wall, twitching and clutching his groin. 

“Ha! Howd’ya like that, fucker?” Crowley shouted with a crazed grin, coughing and rubbing at his sore neck. His moment of celebration was short-lived, however, as Hastur immediately came charging through the doorway, almost running into him. 

The demon’s black eyes widened. If he had had time to expect anything, he no doubt would have expected Crowley to try to use his power, to change his size, or any number of typical demonic things that he could have countered. He was certainly not expecting him to step forward and drive his right fist directly into the centre of his face, putting all the force of his momentum and suppressed rage behind it. Hastur’s head snapped straight back with a very satisfying _crunch_ and spray of blood, and Crowley reeled back as well. _“OW! Shit!”_ His hand was abruptly a mass of pain on the end of his arm, and he gritted his teeth and stumbled away as fast as he could. Punching people never looked this painful in films! Hollywood had a lot to answer for. While Hastur was still staggering around with hands over his face, he took the opportunity to dash over and scoop up the black bag from where it had fallen in all the confusion.

Hastur finally recovered himself, clutching his mashed nose, and spared only a single disgusted look for the dark-haired demon still writhing on the ground. “Get up,” he snarled in a muffled voice, without taking his burning eyes off Crowley. The other demon only moaned, and Hastur stomped over, reached down and hauled him one-handed to his feet. The two demons faced him, one bloody, one hunched and rather green, and now they both looked distinctly upset. Hastur's glare looked even more frightening with a mask of crimson covering the lower half of his face. 

Crowley flexed his throbbing hand, which didn’t seem to be broken at least, and tightened his other hand’s grip on the bag as he watched them stalk towards him. One benefit of pissing Hastur off so badly was that he was clearly too enraged to be cautious, or think at all. Hurray? He backed slowly towards the exit, heart pummeling his chest- he needed to draw them further into the room and away from the other doorway, so he could get around them when the chaos started. He got exactly one shot, so it had to be perfect. His hands were shaking again. The entire situation was so fragile it would snap if he even breathed on it wrong.

“Where are you going, _Crawly_?” Hastur hissed. “Don't you want to come and see your friend?” He clearly wasn’t worried about him trying to escape; he was smiling now despite the broken nose. No doubt he could sense his pounding fear. 

Crowley’s back bumped up against the wall- there was nowhere left to go but out. He favored them with his fiercest grin. “Yeah, about that. The other angels are gonna have some interesting words for you.” _Just a little further…a little further…_

The lesser demon looked nervous at that, but Hastur only snorted, malice gleaming in his dark eyes. “Delusional bastard.” He kept slowly advancing on him, face alight with anticipation. “Heaven will _thank_ me for getting rid of the two of you. They’re embarrassed, Crawly, both sides are. Runnin’ around laughing in our faces. Nah. No one’s going to come avenging this one.” 

Crowley had the feeling that he might be right on that front, but it didn’t matter. They had finally reached the centre of the room, about five yards away from him. 

This was it. Last chance, last gasp, last turn of the cards.

“I guess that part’s up to me, then.” He wound up like a shot putter, and with a full body twisting heave flung the duffel bag towards them as hard as he could. It was a decent throw, considering the less-than-aerodynamic shape and size. It spun through the air and landed with a distinctly unimpressive _flump_ right at the two demons’ feet, and they leapt back and stared at it. Crowley flung out his uninjured hand and sent a wide stream of Hellfire lancing straight at them. The Hellfire splashed right off both Hastur and the other demon, not even singing their clothes. 

It did not splash off the duffel bag. Crowley crouched down low and watched, breathing heavily, as it ignited and went up like a flaming torch. He marked the trajectory to the door firmly in his mind; he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be able to see very clearly in a moment. He held his breath, nerves jangling and stretched bowstring-tight... waiting… waiting…

Nothing happened. The bag gave off only a vague sizzling sound. The two demons glanced at each other and shrugged. 

Crowley wanted to scream. Could absolutely nothing in this entire bloody _hideous_ day go right? _Are You too_ busy _up there or something?_ he raged in his mind. _I don’t know if You’re paying attention, but I’m t_ rying _to save one of Your people from-”_

_**!BOOM!** _

The explosion came out of nowhere, shaking the walls, far louder and more violent than he had expected. He fell over in shock at the deafening noise as shrieking missiles flew in all directions, trailing fire like comets and filling the room with a constant stream of light and sound. Smoke billowed so thickly he couldn’t see a thing. Gold sparks poured out of what used to be the bag like a holy geyser, leaping ceiling-high and flickering through the smoke. Flaming rockets ricocheted off the walls; streaks of colour zinged every which way like maddened hornets. Bits of burning wood pelted his body, leaving tiny bruises. Constant rat-tat-tat pops that sounded like gunshots shook the air. It was an all-out, overwhelming assault on all five senses, and it would have been quite impressive in a massive, wide open field. In the enclosed space it was catastrophic. 

Demons were immune to fire; they were _not_ immune to an apocalyptic light show sending hundreds of howling projectiles exploding directly into their faces. Crowley could hear screaming, and frankly he couldn’t blame them. He had been prepared, and yards away, and he still was utterly astounded by the sheer violence he had unleashed. It was as if he had cracked open a portal to the rowdiest depths of Hell itself, and it was throwing a rager of a party. Hastur and whatever-his-name-was had been standing nearly on top of the damn bag and didn’t stand a chance. 

He realized he was just sitting there cowering like an idiot, wasting precious seconds. He flung himself to his feet, and used the points of absolutely radiating fear and rage to hone in on the other two demons’ locations- he had maybe thirty seconds tops before they figured out what was happening. He darted blindly around them, around that flaming miniature nuclear reaction- and straight into a wall. He ricocheted off the hard surface, stunned, then groped his way along the boards until he found the edge of the doorway. He ran through it, bursting out of a dense cloud of black smoke into the main building like exiting a war zone. 

And there, finally, _finally_ , was Aziraphale, way at the back of the room, a small forlorn figure sitting there with no obstacles at all between them. Crowley dredged up every last bit of desperate energy he had and began sprinting headlong across the space towards him. He was a good forty yards out, and his lungs immediately began to burn; ugh, he should have taken up jogging after all. Thirty yards to go. He heard the fireworks sputter to a stop, and could only fervently hope that the other two were still reeling too much to do anything. He gritted his teeth and ran harder, digging into reserves he didn’t even know he had, his impractical leather shoes pounding the floor. Twenty yards. The smoky air abruptly cleared – that was Hastur, getting his bearings enough to use his power again. He had mere seconds left. As he ran he snapped his fingers and released the manacles clasping the angel’s wrists. Ten yards. His lungs were searing, muscles screaming, and there was a roar of fury right behind him, but now he was right there, so close. He readied his power. 

He lunged for him – and tripped. 

His foot caught on a chunk of concrete that suddenly leapt up into his path, and he fell sprawling. He clipped his chin hard on the cement floor, slamming his teeth together with a jarring clack, biting his tongue and flooding his mouth with the taste of salt and bitter iron. He skidded to a halt on his stomach just an arm’s length away from his husband’s feet. 

With one final, desperate effort he reached across that infinite stretch and grabbed Aziraphale's ankle, and threw absolutely everything he had left into it. 

Steely hands seized him around the legs. He was hauled back with inexorable strength, tearing his grip away and flinging him backwards through the air with bone-breaking force. He had just enough time to look at the oncoming cement floor and think, _This will hurt_.

He hit. It hurt. A lot. 

He crashed to the ground with a bright red flare of pain and lay there, groaning, wind completely knocked out of him. Before he could begin to recover he was seized by the scruff of the neck and shaken like a terrier shakes a rat, then slammed against a nearby stack of lumber a couple of times for good measure, making his vision flash white. He was then lifted into the air and yanked nose to nose with – Hastur, of course. Reeking of sulfur and demon-stench and angrier than a half-drowned cat. His mackintosh was a complete wreck, riddled with tears and holes and blasted apart in places- whatever demonic protection they had against fire apparently did not apply to impact damage. He held himself oddly hunched, as if standing pained him, but his grip was as strong as ever. His blood-streaked face was black with soot and contorted with fury; the pit-dark eyes burned with a hatred almost beyond reason, too-sharp teeth bared as if to take a bite out of him. Crowley had never seen an expression quite so cartoonishly enraged in his entire life. _Shit._ He spat blood from his cut tongue into the snarling face, figuring he had nothing left to lose. 

He looked desperately over the demon’s shoulder towards Aziraphale, hoping against hope – but the angel still sat slumped in his chair, arms now hanging limply at his sides. Unchanged and unmoving. Crowley’s heart sank all the way to his toes and continued downward through the floor. He must not have had enough time, or he simply hadn’t been powerful enough. Either way, he had failed. Again. 

_Not good enough._ He swallowed a hot lump of despair in his throat as his eyes began to sting. _I’m so sorry, angel. I tried._

Hastur cast an irritated glanced backwards, clearly miffed that he wasn’t the focus of his attention. “That was cute,” he growled. “Nice little trick. You’re just full of tricks, aren’t you Crawly?" He held him firmly around the throat while the dark-haired demon twisted his arms up agonizingly behind his back. From the wheezing breaths fanning the back of his neck, it didn’t sound as if he had come away unscathed from the fireworks either. Crowley thrashed, even though he knew it was useless. 

“No more human tricks. No more human anything, for you. End of the line.” Hastur was clearly enjoying himself now, getting back some of his own after being humiliated yet again. Crowley would have rolled his eyes if they didn’t hurt so much.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a moment and rub your hands together, too?” he rasped bitterly. “Maybe cackle a bit more?” 

Hastur just stared at him, uncomprehending. 

Crowley shrugged, painfully, and shut his eyes. He was not going to cry in front of Hastur, not for the world. “You’re hitting all the other marks. Just thought I’d check.” He wished he would just get it over with, already. The bastard had to gloat. At least if he killed him first, there was a slim chance he might let Aziraphale live.

“We’ll see you downstairs, Crawly. I’m looking forward to it.” The hand around his throat tightened. 

“My name is Anthony Crowley," he wheezed. “And you are nothing. Fuck you, Hastur.” 

He looked over, wanting to see Aziraphale’s face one last time – 

– and found himself looking straight into open blue eyes wide with horror. 

His mouth fell open in shock, and even Hastur wasn’t stupid enough to ignore a tell like that. He spun around. 

There was a soundless explosion of dazzling white light. 

This explosion gave off no smoke, no sparks, but the effect was no less breathtaking. It was almost the exact same vivid, incandescent light that he had seen that night in the wine cellar, all those months ago in London; that sharp radiance that had knocked Hastur from his feet and sent him scrabbling cringing away. _Almost_ the same, but not quite. This light was heavier, somehow more tangible, nearly alive, edged in gold and humming with deadly power. It filled the room with its furious, thunderous presence, making the air tremble and walls rattle. It was beautiful and terrible and somehow so much _more_ than light, singing with rage and joy like music given physical form. 

If the other light had been a threat, this light was a promise, and this time it did not knock them down. 

It caught both demons and set them aflame.

They shrieked as they burned. Crowley dropped bonelessly to the ground as both Hastur and the other demon released him and staggered backward, howling in shock and flailing their arms like men trying to fend off a swarm of bees. The lesser demon barely had time to register what was happening before he went up like a pile of kindling and was gone. Hastur, as the ranking demon there, lasted a bit longer, snarling useless threats and curses at them as he thrashed about. But in the end that clear, cold power would not be denied; it ate away at him like acid until he simply vanished, without even a puff of greasy smoke to mark his passing. 

The last echoing shriek faded out. Crowley suddenly found himself nearly alone in the noon-bright building, sitting untouched where he had fallen and squinting in shock. Aziraphale was still standing there, unmoving, too brilliant to look at, just a vaguely man-shaped supernova that tore at the eyes and illuminated the room with almost painful beauty. He was resplendent.

The light abruptly faltered. The angel staggered and sank to one knee, still blazing white-hot and now throwing off sparks like a piece of burning magnesium. Crowley lurched to his feet and ran towards him, heedless of the billowing power snapping through the air. Heat pressed against his face and caught at his hair, blowing it back as if in a high wind, but he only shielded his eyes and pushed onward until he reached him. He dove forward and caught Aziraphale just as he fell, and it was like touching a live wire. An enormous jolt went through him; lightning fizzed through every vein in his body and crackled on his skin; ozone seared the back of his tongue. He had just enough time to gasp once in shock before that power went out as if someone had flipped a switch. Every single overhead lamp overloaded an instant later, bursting one at a time with violent explosions of glass and showers of sparks, plunging the room into total darkness.

Silence. 

Crowley's skin was tingling and twitching, and he smelled burnt hair. Thin tendrils of smoke were rising from his body, and he knelt hunched with razor shards of broken glass digging into his knees, but none of that mattered because he was holding Aziraphale. He was holding him so tightly against his pounding chest that it was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe; his body was solid and familiar and _wonderful_ in his arms, and he was never fucking letting go of him ever, ever again. He let out a single, breathless sob that seemed to tear its way out of his soul. The entire bloody universe was clutched safe in his arms, and he had not failed after all. 

A moment or two later the angel stirred weakly. He slowly looked up, blinking and staring blankly around as he tried in vain to see in the pitch dark. “Crowley?” He gasped, and clutched at him. “Crowley! What happened? I-” He winced and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh dear…oh, my head…” His voice was slightly slurred. 

In the absence of his Grace, he was just Aziraphale again, and he was still hurt. His face was chalky pale.

Crowley kissed the unbruised side of his forehead and lightly smoothed his hair with a hand that shook. “Yes, it’s me, I’m here,” he soothed. “We’re safe. Don’t move, it looks like they hit your head pretty hard. Give me a minute and I’ll fix it.” 

“Oh.” He sounded bleary and confused, still pawing dazedly at his face and trying to squint through the dark. “Are you alright? Where are- what about the demons?” 

“Only this demon here now. You wiped out the others. Now be quiet for a second, I need to concentrate.” He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hand to keep it still, and closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself and marshal what traces of power he had left. He took a deep breath and slowly, carefully, blew on the livid cut. For an agonizing few seconds nothing happened, then the wound began to sluggishly close. A long minute later and it had sealed up and vanished, the swelling shrank away, leaving only the clots of dried blood behind. Crowley exhaled in a rush, lightheaded with relief. Healing arts were so discouraged among demons that he was afraid he might have forgotten how to do the more elaborate stuff. Head injuries could be tricky. 

“Ohhh...” Aziraphale sighed. “That’s much better, thank you.” He sounded himself again; his voice was finally clear, if exhausted, and a little colour seemed to come back into his cheeks. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked. “What’s wrong, why can’t I see?”

“Nothing.” Crowley hugged him as tightly as he could, giddy with happiness. “Nothing’s wrong, there just aren’t any lights on. You shorted them all out.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. White light flickered weakly for only an instant before fading away. He groaned, and lay his head on his shoulder with a thump. “Darling, did they hurt you? Are you alright?” 

Crowley laughed, and there was a note of hysteria in it. “Me? Am _I_ alright? You- you-” He wanted to shake him, but found himself hugging him again instead. “You ridiculous idiot,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’m just fine. Does anything else hurt?” 

“No, it was just my head I think. I’m just…so very tired.” 

“Understandable. Do you remember anything that happened?”

“I…was at home,” Aziraphale said wearily, without lifting his head. “I didn’t feel right and...” he trailed off, thinking. “I think I fell. Next thing I remember is waking up with the most _horrid_ headache, and there you were about to be killed. I was angry.” He shuddered, and Crowley tightened his arms around him, rocking him from side to side. “It’s all a bit fuzzy again after that.” 

“You were still concussed, I barely had enough time to get the drug out of your system.” He kissed the blond hair, joy and relief rushing through him so powerfully that it hurt. He was suddenly aware of how staggeringly tired he was. His knees burned from kneeling on the uneven floor, and there was something wrong with one of his arms. He closed his eyes and made a small sound, of exhaustion and happiness and who knew what else. Bloody hell, but he was going to crawl into bed with him and stay there for a week.

“Crowley.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can we go home?” 

He remembered that Aziraphale was still sitting blind, and swore. “Of course. Of course, my angel.” He scrubbed his eyes on his filthy sleeve, and for a moment was very glad of the dark. 

Aziraphale sat up with difficulty, swaying and gripping his arm for balance. “Heavens,” he muttered. “I can’t see a thing.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Crowley. “I can.”

He put an arm under his legs and back, and with an effort scooped him up off the ground. He was so weary that he had to unfurl his wings and use them as leverage to help stand, but once he was on his feet he was steady. He may not be as strong as Aziraphale, but he was damn well strong enough to get him home. 

“Crowley dear, I can walk, you don’t have to-” 

“Quiet, angel.” He pulled him close and kissed him, shutting him up. His lips were soft, he was warm and alive in his arms, and he had no intention of ever putting him down. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. Aziraphale sighed and wrapped his arms around his neck, resting his head on his shoulder and relaxing against him. Crowley cradled him tight against his chest and carried him out of the dark building, into the cool summer evening full of cricket song. The moon was a luminous coin hanging in the sky, and as he stepped over the threshold a fresh breeze ruffled his wings and sweat-soaked hair. He took a deep, easy breath, his first since that afternoon, and slowly let it out as that cleansing wind brushed away the lingering smell of firework smoke. Aziraphale stirred slightly and looked up at him. His lips were parted, eyes shining fever-bright as he stared at his face, and in that moment Crowley felt twenty feet tall. He carried his angel across the construction site and all the way down the road to where his faithful Bentley was parked, and didn’t let go of him until he was settled safely in the passenger seat.

Despite his protests that he was fine, Aziraphale fell asleep before the engine even started, slumped against the door with head lolling to one side. Crowley drove towards home as fast as he could without waking him, eager to put distance between them and that place. He let the Bentley do most of the steering and gear shifting so he could keep looking over at his unconscious husband. The road was empty and quiet, a ribbon of moonlight across the dark stretches of nothing; billowing dust trailing behind them in a pale cloud as the Bentley ate up the miles. The distant stars were bright. He did not once let go of Aziraphale’s hand. 

* * *

He insisted on carrying him into the house as well. They walked through the familiar door, and as the comfortable sights and smells of home washed over them he could almost believe that the entire thing had been just another bad dream. Menace already lay sleeping on his cushion by the fireplace, he noted with a burst of relief. He lay the groggy angel down on the sofa and glared at said fireplace, where flames obediently roared up. The night had grown slightly cooler in the past hour, and he’d be damned if he was going to let him get chilled. 

“Don’t move,” he ordered. Aziraphale only sighed and closed his eyes again. He still looked tired and wan. Crowley was worried for him- he had used more power than he had ever seen before, and while drugged and injured to boot. 

First he went to shut the back door, which he had propped open...had it really only been a couple hours ago? It seemed like weeks. He gave his head a disbelieving shake and headed into the kitchen. The sight of the dried blood still on the floor hit him like a sudden slap in the face, and his step faltered. He banished the stain with a curt gesture, jaw tight, then got a soft cloth out of the cupboard and dampened it with water from the tap. He sat down next to Aziraphale on the sofa and began gently swabbing the dried blood from his face.

Aziraphale looked him over in the light, seeing him clearly for the first time, and blinked. “Good Lord,” he said, eyes widening. “You’re a complete mess! Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” 

Crowley looked down at himself. His long-sleeved black shirt was smeared with grime and had dozens of tiny holes from the flying bits of fireworks, not even counting the back where it had been completely torn open by his wings. It hung on him like a vaguely shirt-themed rag, and he imagined the rest of him didn’t look much better. He wasn’t surprised, but there hadn’t exactly been a chance to look in the mirror. He shrugged a shoulder, the less painful one. “Nah. And look who’s talking. Here, lift your chin.” The angel did, and he cleaned the smeared red from his jaw and neck as well. He examined him carefully, tilting his face from side to side, but there didn’t seem to be any other damage. “There. Good as new.” A snap vanished away the soiled cloth, and he cupped Aziraphale’s face between his suddenly free hands. He wanted to absorb every little thing about him, all the desperately important details that he had been so afraid he would never see again. 

The blue eyes looked back at him, tired but steady as always, and the familiar crow’s feet appeared as he smiled. The angel reached up to put a hand on his wrist, stroking gently with his fingers. “You came to get me. You saved me again.” There was a note of soft awe in his voice.

“Force of habit.” Crowley brushed a thumb over those beloved creases and traced the outline of his mouth with a fingertip, unable to tear his eyes away. If he stopped looking at him even for an instant he might disappear again. “And technically, you were the one who saved us both. I just woke you up.” Memory of that stunning power flashed through his mind, and he gazed at him in renewed awe of his own. “You were magnificent, my angel.” 

Aziraphale leaned across the short distance and kissed him, urgently, and at that touch a dam broke inside Crowley's chest. He had kept the bit clamped between his teeth all day, kept an iron grip on his emotions because the alternative was to shatter into a thousand pieces and be of no use to anyone. But now, sitting here in their home, it was safe. That fist could finally unclench, and unclench it did with a horrid snap. All the fear and despair, everything he had felt at the sight of that terrible pool of blood on the floor, all the overwhelming relief- it all seemed to well up inside of him in one overpowering burst. There was a sudden hot ache in his chest and behind his eyes. He hung his head and squeezed them shut, but it didn’t help, and to his mortified shame tears began to trail down his face. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, and swallowed hard. “I thought I’d never...” Whatever else he had been about to say stuck in his throat, and the only thing that came out was a choked keening. 

“Oh, my darling.” This time it was Aziraphale who quickly pulled him into his arms and held him against his chest. “Oh my love. I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted to put you through that again.” Soft hands rubbed his back, just like they always did after a nightmare, and all the comfort in the world was in those hands. Crowley closed his eyes and held him as the grief receded, breathing in ragged shudders and trying to compose himself. He had not shattered. He was still whole. 

“Hastur only tried to kill you because of me. It was my fault.” The thought had been eating at him all day. He felt a nudge against his leg and glanced down to see that Menace had come over and was leaning against his calf, looking up at him.

“No! Don’t be silly, darling. I’m sure they would be equally happy to kill both of us. We interfered with their War, remember?” Aziraphale laid his cheek against the top of his head, then sniffed at him. “Why do you smell like smoke?” Fingers touched his hair now, combing through it, and his voice sharpened. “This is singed off. All of this is singed! How? What happened?”

“Oh, ah…” He sniffled and cleared his throat. “Well, the smoke would be from the fireworks.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“And the hair is from…well, you were still burning, and you gave me a sort of shock, when I caught you. Not a big deal.” 

_“What?”_ Aziraphale tried to pull back, but Crowley didn’t let go. He wasn’t ready to stop holding him just yet. The angel shifted, trying to look at his face. “ _I_ hurt you?” He sounded horrified and distressed, and that was enough to make Crowley release him and sit up. 

“No, I’m fine, look. Not burned to a crisp, so all’s well.” He spread his arms reassuringly, and his breath caught as a spike of red-hot pain lanced through his right arm. 

Aziraphale gave him a flat look. “Right. Let me see that.” He reached out and took him carefully by the wrist, and Crowley hissed involuntarily as his fingers touched a particularly tender spot on his elbow- right where he had made the direct acquaintance of the cement floor. 

“Ah. That wasn’t from you,” he said quickly. 

“ _That_ is a fracture! And…” Aziraphale gingerly pulled back the neck of his black t-shirt, revealing an enormous purpling bruise running from collarbone to shoulder, and narrowed his eyes accusingly at him.

Crowley glanced down at it, craning his neck to see. “Huh. Didn’t even notice that one.” Gentle fingers touched the underside of his chin, and he winced. “Or that one. But I’m fine otherwise.” 

Aziraphale ignored him and lifted the ruined t-shirt up, carefully, carefully- and gasped in dismay at the black and blue splotches that had bloomed all across his chest. “For heaven’s sake, Crowley!” he burst out. “This is _not_ ‘fine’, none of this is fine! This –” he touched him with one finger just to the left of his sternum, and Crowley sucked in a sharp breath “– is a cracked rib.” 

“Hngh. You don’t say.” So that was the stitch in his side. It hadn’t seemed terribly important. 

Aziraphale stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, face pale again. “I thought- How long was I out? What happened before I woke up?” 

“Nothing much. Diplomatic negotiations.” 

“Oh for heaven’s-” he stopped and swallowed, shaking his head. When he spoke next his voice was quiet and low. “Just sit still while I take care of all this, love.” 

“Sure.” He could do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he was allowed to stay here and look at him. He sat obediently quiet while the angel stripped off his shredded t-shirt and jeans, muttering to himself, exclaiming anew as he found the swollen knuckles, abrasions on his knees, and the particularly exciting mass of bruises that was his right hip. He tended to each injury with dogged determination, and insisted on healing every single little inconsequential scrape and bruise he found despite Crowley’s protests.

It took a lot longer than usual- Aziraphale was still weak and drained, and he could tell that every effort cost him. But eventually all the various breaks and bruises and other damage were wiped away just as thoroughly as the dried blood. 

“There.” Aziraphale prodded his newly-healed arm and gave a grim nod, lips tightly pursed. “What on _earth_ are you smiling about?”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” The truth was that Aziraphale’s fussy indignation as he healed him had done more to restore his spirits than anything else so far. It was a fresh breath of normalcy on a day that desperately needed it. He reached down and scratched Menace’s head, who was now lying on the floor by his leg and had watched the entire proceedings with interest. 

“You were nearly not okay.” The angel looked strained, and had deep shadows under his eyes. 

“I’m fine. Better than ever, thanks to you.” Crowley kissed him and stood up, wearing only his boxer briefs now. He grabbed a blanket from the nearby armchair and draped it over Aziraphale, then headed towards the kitchen, flexing his healed fingers. He’d been pretty proud of that particular injury. “I’m going to make us some hot cocoa,” he called over his shoulder. “Unless you prefer wine?” 

“With the way I’m feeling, if I have any wine I’ll fall directly asleep.”

“That might be good.” He leaned on the counter and watched him closely. “You really wore yourself out.” 

“Not just yet. I’d like to stay awake with you for a while. I…” Aziraphale looked down at his hands and swallowed. “I don’t want that to be the last thing I see, before.”

Crowley knew what he meant. As tired as he was, if he slept right now he would only fall headfirst into a nightmare. Sometimes sleep had to wait. He thumped the marble countertop with a flourish. “Cocoa it is, then.” 

He quickly prepared two mugs, then stopped as he reached for the cocoa tin. No, not powdered cocoa tonight- if any time called for the good stuff, this was it. He grabbed a bar of dark chocolate from the cupboard shelf instead. Aziraphale usually was the one to make it, but he’d watched him often enough, and it was chocolate, damn it, not rocket science. Crowley didn’t bother with the stovetop, but heated the milk directly in the cups with a wave of his hand and dropped in pieces of the chocolate. He added honey, making sure to put extra in Aziraphale’s, and stirred until it was all melted together to the right consistency. 

He hurried back to the sofa and proudly handed Aziraphale his mug, then plopped down next to him and sipped contentedly. Not bad at all. Sugar wasn’t usually his thing, but right now the hot, rich drinking chocolate was perfect after an evening full of terrible shocks. He leaned against his angel’s comfortable bulk and took another large gulp, arm slung across his shoulders.

Aziraphale looked at him over the rim of the mug and gave a tired smile. “You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who got beaten half to death just a little while ago.”

“Ah, you’re exaggerating. A quarter to death at most.” He was in a good mood, far better than he had ever thought would be possible ever again. Against all odds, they had won. Relief was a heady brew; he hadn’t felt quite like this in nearly a year. 

“Those demons...I don’t think they were just discorporated. I wasn’t holding back at all. I think they’re truly dead. Gone.” Aziraphale sounded troubled now. 

Crowley remembered that cold, clear light, the way Hastur had dissolved away like ice under hot water. Somehow it hadn’t even occurred to him to be afraid. “Yeah.” He set down his mug on the coffee table and regarded him somberly, examining his face. “Are you okay?” 

“I think so.” Aziraphale was staring into the depths of his chocolate, a crease between his brows. “I never wanted to kill anyone, but it was far better than them killing you. Or me, for that matter.” 

“Hey, that’s the spirit.” Crowley reached out and turned his face towards him, leaning in close. “It’s okay, my angel. You did nothing wrong. You didn’t have much choice, after all.” 

Aziraphale looked back at him, eyes wide with distress. “But, I could have killed you too! I barely knew what I was doing; I just...lost control. I’m honestly not sure how you’re still alive.” 

So that’s what was bothering him. Crowley brushed his cheek with the back of his fingers, and was momentarily distracted. He’d been so afraid he’d never get to do that again. “Well, I _am_ alive. We both are, and I’m willing to call that a win regardless how it happened.” He nudged him gently and squeezed the arm around his shoulders. “You know, that stuff is a lot better when it’s still hot.”

Aziraphale blinked down at his mug of chocolate like he’d forgotten it was there, and took a sip. He sighed and closed his eyes, and the tense lines along his brow seemed to relax a little. “Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you.” He took another drink, and Crowley watched, relieved, while he slowly drained the rest. By the end of it Aziraphale’s colour was nearly back to normal, and as he looked up at him a true smile finally spread across his face.

“There you go.” Crowley took the mug from him, then picked up a napkin and reached out to blot a bit of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “You just need some rest. You’ll feel much better.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale put a hand on his knee, and the way he was suddenly looking at him made him feel like his legs were no longer touching the cushions beneath them. “Thank you. For going there to get me. It must have been awful.”

“Not compared to the alternative. But none of that matters; you’re safe and they’re dead.” A flash of furious satisfaction shot through him. “Hastur was the only demon mad and angry enough to try that, and now he’s gone. We don’t need to worry about him ever again.” 

Aziraphale sighed, and his mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Fireworks, hm? You’re going to have to tell me that story, later.”

Crowley knew a subject change when he heard it, and smiled back. “Okay, later I will.” He toyed with one of the blond curls, winding it around and around his finger. “Did you want to sleep now? It would do you good.” 

“No,” he said. “Not yet.” Aziraphale moved his hand from his knee to his upper thigh, still holding his gaze. Crowley swallowed as his heart began to beat faster. 

“Angel, you- you almost died today, are you sure you don’t need to-” 

“What I _need_ ,” Aziraphale interrupted firmly, blue eyes serious, “is for my husband to make love to me, right now, and prove to me that he is alive and alright. To show me that this is real.” He moved his hand a bit higher, and Crowley put his own hand atop it. “My body is fine, just tired. It’s my spirit that hurts. Sleep won’t help that.” Without waiting for an answer he leaned in and kissed him, slowly, sliding both hands up and under his jaw to hold him in place. Any protests Crowley might have had flew straight out of his head. Aziraphale's lips were warm, his hands were solid and strong, and truth be told he needed him just as badly.

With a sigh of relief he pulled his husband close, holding him as tightly as he had at the construction site, and kissed him back. Then he was tipping him down onto the sofa, Aziraphale’s arms around his neck. “Come here, my angel,” he murmured. Then their mouths were occupied, and they were done talking. He carefully unbuttoned and peeled him out of his bloodstained waistcoat and shirt, unwrapping each piece of him as if it was some rare, precious gift, which of course it _was_. He held him and ran his tongue over the smooth pale skin of his chest while the angel helpfully undid his own trousers. Once he was finally naked beneath him he pressed him down into the cushions and kissed every inch of his body, alternating between lips and tongue, delighting in every perfect detail as he reassured himself that it was still there and unharmed. There were a few small bruises where the demons had struck him, and Crowley carefully licked away each one, leaving healed skin behind. He trailed kisses down his chest and bit gently right above his heart, rubbed his cheek against the soft dimple of his navel, and continued downward until he was kissing the fine pale hair around his sex. Aziraphale moaned, and then his hands were on his head, stroking and clutching. No other encouragement was needed- Crowley lifted one leg to drape over his shoulder, then ran his tongue up along the velvet softness of his inner thigh, all the way up. He kissed him until he was hard, then took that hardness in his mouth and sucked him again and again, bringing him right to the brink and then easing back. He pleasured him until the angel was gasping, until those manicured hands were clenched in his hair so tightly that it hurt. He welcomed it. At long last he finally raised his head and climbed atop him, into Aziraphale's eagerly waiting arms, and felt a piece of the universe click back into place. He made slow love to him with all the achingly desperate tenderness that he could. Just barely rocking against him, stroking his face with careful fingertips. The world turned on the perfect fulcrum that was the press of his body and the softness of him, of bare legs wrapped around his waist and those azure eyes looking up into his own. “Better?” he whispered. Aziraphale just smiled, and kissed him, and all _was_ better.

They were safe. He had not failed to keep his promise after all. He rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s as tears overflowed again, tears of relief this time, and the angel held his face between his hands and brushed his lips over his eyes and cheeks, kissing the tears away. Now it was Aziraphale touching every part of him, stroking his hair and whispering reassurances. They spent a long time just like that. Tangled up and murmuring gently to each other as his chocolate grew stone cold and the fire gradually burned down to glowing embers. Alternating between stillness and bursts of passion. Not even attempting to come, but they both did anyway at long last, with quiet shaking intensity, one after another. 

They stayed together on the sofa, after, wrapped up in each other’s arms with the blanket draped over them both. The fire was only a shifting glimmer of coals, and the room was comfortably dark and warm. Aziraphale nodded off immediately. His cheeks had a rosy flush now, lips pink and slightly swollen from kisses, and his brow was smooth and uncreased once again. Crowley stayed awake, smoothing his fingers through the silky pale hair and watching the way the dim firelight played over his face. Contemplating the shifting nature of Judgment… and Mercy.

It was only when the small wooden clock chimed the third hour that he roused, blinking. They really should both be getting to bed. He extricated himself and stood, careless of his own nudity. For the third time that evening he bent and carefully picked him up, keeping him wrapped in the blanket. Aziraphale stirred and reached up to put his arm around his neck, but didn’t wake. 

At the foot of the stairs Crowley stopped, and turned to look around. He listened intently with all his senses alert and stretched wide, feeling the timbre of the room. He inhaled slowly, tasting the silence, but the sour note in the world was indeed gone. The shadows were nothing more than shadows. The night air was fresh and sweet once again. 

Everything was as it should be. 

He extinguished the fire with a jerk of his chin, and carried his sleeping husband up the stairs to their bedroom. 

That night he dreamed of nothing at all. 

* * *

[art by [procoffeinating](https://procoffeinating.tumblr.com) on Tumblr]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. Being brave means you are scared, really scared, badly scared, and you do the right thing anyway."_  
>  -Neil Gaiman


	4. Reassurances

* * *

Aziraphale slowly woke to softness, and the familiar heat of Crowley’s arms around him.

He was so impossibly sleepy, far more so than usual, and it only made the sensation of being curled up in bed that much more lovely. Each eyelid felt like it weighed a ton, and he was in no particular rush to open them. He sighed and shifted a little, smiling at the feel of fever-warm skin against his cheek - then abruptly remembered. He remembered the day before, and what had happened. He pried his eyes open with a jerk. 

From the angle and intensity of the sunlight pouring through the window, it was at least late morning, possibly even early afternoon. They were in their bed, but he had no recollection of getting there. He was lying snug against Crowley’s bare chest with his head pillowed in the crook of his shoulder, their legs tangled together. The lanky arms were wrapped in a tight embrace around his shoulders and waist, holding him protectively close as if afraid to let go even in sleep. Neither of them were wearing anything under the tartan duvet. _That_ part he did remember, vividly, and the memory was a happy glow among the confusion. 

He clutched him tight and closed his eyes again, focusing on the rise and fall of his husband’s chest, the leaping of his heart. It soothed and anchored him, kept him firmly in the present after the surreal blur that was yesterday. _This is real. We are alright. He is_ _alive_. For a long time he just lay there and held him, so full of gratitude that it hurt, while he tried to order his disjointed memories into something resembling sense. 

Kidnapped! Of all the most unlikely, ridiculous things...he could still barely believe it. It was like something from one of his more far-fetched novels, and he didn't even know the full story yet. He only knew that he had gone from having the most perfect day to abruptly waking in the middle of a wretched nightmare. One minute he had been in his own sitting room, happy as you please, and the next had blearily opened his eyes to find himself God-knows-where, head throbbing, staring straight at his worst fear. It had been enough to make him doubt his own sanity. The sight of Hastur holding Crowley by the throat with murder in his eyes...he shuddered and hugged him tighter. That image had already haunted the back of his mind for months, and yesterday something inside himself had snapped. 

The rest he remembered only in a series of blurry flashes. Shock. Terror. Rage. Incandescent heat, obliterating.... And then a softer, gentler heat: Crowley’s warm arms around him, lifting him off the floor and carrying him through the dark. The bone-deep knowledge that he was safe. A flash of golden eyes, gleaming down at him in the moonlight. The familiar oil and leather smells of the Bentley lulling him, rocking him to sleep as they drove toward home. The press of fingers holding his hand.

He kissed Crowley's neck and sighed against him.His own marvelously clever, wily, _brave_ demon had rescued him, again, like some shining hero out of legend. A rush of love and adoration poured through his heart, so intense that he stopped breathing and had to blink away hot tears. Crowley had saved him so many times, in every possible way someone could be saved, and he could never begin to repay him. His heart was going to burst; he needed a second one just to contain how much he loved him. He was simply…simply… there was no word in the languages of either men or angels to express how marvelous he was. 

Marvelous, but not invincible, he remembered with a pang. Crowley had paid a heavy price for his heroism, nearly too high. Aziraphale had been so in awe of him last night, and had been so exhausted, that it had taken him far too long to notice how horribly battered he was. That memory sent another shudder through him. The slow, sickening realization that Crowley was not in fact unscathed, that he had been so badly hurt...how close he had come to losing him...

He pushed himself up on one elbow to get a better look at him, suddenly desperate for reassurance. Crowley’s sleeping face was peaceful, his brow relaxed and unfurrowed, but he was a complete mess. His hair was filthy, so thick with soot that hardly any red was visible. Black streaks of more soot and God knows what else had settled deep into the creases around his mouth and eyes, drawing harsh lines where there were usually none and making him look far older than he normally did. Sweat and tears had left clean tracks here and there through the grime. Aziraphale tenderly ran his fingers along the angular jaw. He was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

There were other, more disturbing signs of what he had endured as well. That dirty hair was a little shorter than it had been the previous morning, the last inch or so burned clean off. Under the normal reek of smoke was a far worse scent, a knife-edged, ugly smell of scorched flesh where no fire should have been able to touch him. 

Aziraphale’s throat tightened, and he swallowed back a surge of nausea; he had almost burned his Crowley right out of existence. Touching him with his Grace out like that had nearly killed him- _should_ have killed him, by all logic and precedent. He squeezed his eyes shut and sent a silent, fervent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for whatever miracle had allowed him to survive.

He knew he should let him sleep, that he must be exhausted, but he just couldn’t help himself. He needed to hear him speak, to see those gorgeous slitted eyes, to know that he was alive and unchanged. That he had not destroyed the person he loved most in the universe. He leaned in and kissed him once on each eyelid, then slowly, unhurriedly, on the mouth. He tasted like smoke, too. 

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at him. There was the briefest flicker of confusion, as always, that flash of disbelief before his face softened into a smile. Oh, how he adored seeing him smile like that, with his entire face relaxed and eyes bright. That smile was like the sun breaking through clouds after a terrible storm. When he smiled like that, a younger, softer Crowley shone through, and it was difficult to believe that he was a demon at all. 

“Hey.” Said demon reached up and lay his hand against his cheek. His fingers were rough and warm. “How are you feeling?” 

Aziraphale smiled back, giddy with relief, and placed his own hand over Crowley’s. “Tip top, my love. How about you?” 

“Never better.” He sounded like he meant it, too. He tucked one arm under his head and just lay there on his back, looking up at him with luminous golden eyes and a half-smile. Aziraphale felt that familiar swell of love and happiness rise to envelop him from head to toe, filling up his chest and driving out the worry. He couldn’t help but catch that joy, and for a good couple minutes they stayed there, hands pressed to his cheek and just gazing at each other. Feeling that perfect current of _right_ move through the fabric of the world. Some happinesses were simply too large for anything as small as words.

At length Crowley’s smile turned a bit roguish. He reached up and hooked an arm around his neck, and before Aziraphale knew what was happening he had yanked him down and rolled over on top of him. “Oof! What are you-” His exclamation was cut off as the demon’s mouth covered his own. Those callused fingers were soft on his face as he kissed him, gripping his chin gently with one hand, and his mouth was passionate and wonderful. That feverish-hot body pressed along his soft one like a glowing coal, all coiled energy and fiery life. It set Aziraphale's pulse racing, and he tangled his hands in the singed hair and kissed him back with matching fervour. 

“Wily serpent,” he said breathlessly, as they finally came up for air. His hands came away from his head grey with soot, but he didn't mind. He wanted to rub tracks through his smudges, to create new ones in new places. 

“Hm. I think I’m going to keep you here like this all day, so you can’t get into trouble,” Crowley murmured, noses just barely touching. He walked his fingers up his forearms and laced their hands together, and pressed a light kiss to his nose. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him. “I suppose that’s fine with me. Although at this point I don’t think there’s any trouble I could get into that you couldn’t get me out of.” 

“Well yeah, obviously. Piece of cake." Crowley shrugged a bony shoulder. “But I’d like the day off, if you don’t mind.” 

He looked like he needed one, with the grime still smeared across his face and dark shadows bruising haggard under his eyes. Aziraphale brushed soot off his hand and reached up to gently wipe away those shadows with his thumb, using just a drop of healing power. At least now he didn't look quite so weary. “One of these days you are going to get tired of rescuing me all the time,” he said softly. 

Crowley’s scowled at him, fierce. “Shut up,” he scoffed, and tightened his grip. “ _Never_. Don’t ever say that.” He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned in close, fixing him with an intent stare. His expression turned deadly serious. 

“Would you like some breakfast, angel?” he asked.

The question was so ordinary and unexpected that Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, please, that sounds lovely.” As he said it, he realised he was indeed ravenous. Ravenous, and eager for something pleasant and ordinary. 

Crowley grinned, the dire expression evaporating, and rolled out of bed in a swift whirl of long limbs. He was still very intriguingly naked, and Aziraphale watched appreciatively as he sauntered across the room, hips swinging. The sunlight gilded each and every lean angle of his body, from the stark line of his collarbone allll the way down to his...thighs. Beautiful. 

The demon grabbed his black dressing gown from where it lay wadded up in a ball on the desk chair. “Now. I'm going to leave the room to make breakfast," he said, fixing him with a stern eye as he wrestled his arms into the twisted garment. " _You_ are going to stay in bed, and not move. Not an inch, I- dammit." He stopped and scowled down at the sleeves, which were inside out. He tore off the whole thing with a disgusted grunt and shook it out, but the long black sash had somehow gotten looped and tangled through the sleeves, and the more he tried to shake it the worse it seemed to get. "I want you to be sitting right there when I get back." 

"Mmm hmmm." Aziraphale just lay there on his side, chin propped in his hand, and continued dreamily watching him struggle. All that absurd thrashing around was doing some _very_ fascinating things to his shoulders and back, he noted with great interest. He could see every little shift of muscle under the skin as he moved. He could see a lot more than that, too, and wasn't shy about looking. Good Lord, he was almost too gorgeous to be real.

 _Heaven help me. I'm in love with a gorgeous, marvelous idiot._ He sighed.

Crowley finally managed to force both arms through and yank the right-side-out dressing gown around himself. He blew disheveled hair out of his eyes and looped the sash into a messy knot at his waist, panting a bit. He looked up at him. "Right there, understand?" His cheeks were slightly redder than before.

“Right here. I promise,” Aziraphale agreed solemnly. He had kept a determinedly straight face throughout the ordeal, and wasn't about to break now. 

“Good.” Crowley gave a firm nod, and trotted out of the room and down the hall. His bare feet thumped down the stairs, and a minute later Aziraphale heard the telltale clatter of pans moving frantically around. He grinned and settled back in bed to wait, like he did every morning. 

Crowley’s early attempts at cooking, that first week or two, had been quite enthusiastic...and disastrous. He hadn't thought it was possible to ruin something as simple as toast, but...as in many things, Crowley had surprised him. More often than not he’d been the architect of thoroughly overcooked, unappealing messes unfit for anything but the bin, but you would have had to pry that admission out of Aziraphale with a crowbar. He’d eaten every bite of rubbery eggs, cardboardlike toast, and leather-tough pancakes with a smile, and never said a word (he had, however, discreetly miracled away the more inedible elements when Crowley wasn’t looking). Thankfully, and to his palate’s immense relief, his husband was a fast learner when he put his mind to something, and now was capable of making several different breakfast items very well. He didn’t have to pretend to enjoy his creations anymore, at all. He strongly suspected that at some point Crowley had started helping the process along with a subtle miracle or two, but he certainly wasn’t complaining in this case. 

In a fairly short time Crowley came tromping back up the stairs and into the room, carrying a tray of steaming food. He looked almost painfully relieved to see him sitting there, and Aziraphale smiled and reached out to him. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I’m not going to vanish.” 

“Right, that would be totally unprecedented,” he muttered, looking a little embarrassed. “Here, move forward a bit.”

He did, and Crowley set the tray in front of him, then carefully scooted behind him to sit against the headboard. He wrapped his lanky arms and legs tight around him and pressed his lips to the back of his neck, sending warm shivers racing down to his toes. It was like being wrapped in an aggressively affectionate heated blanket, and for a second Aziraphale forgot that anything else existed. He could just drift here all day, soaking him in.

A moment later his eyes popped open as the enchanting smells of butter and sugar hit his nostrils, reminding him very forcefully that breakfast also existed, right there. Mouth watering, he finally turned his attention to it. 

Crowley had outdone himself. The wooden tray was laden with a stack of golden-brown pancakes on a china plate, lightly dusted with powdered sugar and far too perfectly round to have been made entirely without magic. There was also a small bowl of glossy summer strawberries, so brightly red that they seemed to glow in the sunlight, a steaming pot of tea, and enough cream and honey to flood a small village. He’d even (Aziraphale's heart squeezed in his chest to see it) placed a cut purple iris on the edge of the plate, perfectly in bloom. Somebody was certainly trying to impress.

For some reason the sight of that lovely, carefully arranged tray and flower brought an unexpected lump to his throat, and he had to shut his eyes for a second. When that didn’t work, he covered his face with one hand while he tried to keep his composure.

“Hey, what is it?” Crowley noticed immediately, of course, and was all tender concern. He reached around to touch his chin, turning his face towards him. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and had to swallow a few times. “I should be the one making breakfast for you today,” he said quietly, once he could trust his voice. “This is ridiculous. You’ve already done so much for me. After everything that happened yesterday I should be taking care of you.” 

“Don’t _you_ be ridiculous. You need to rest, and eat,” Crowley said. He pulled him a little closer against his chest and smoothed his hair, the gesture familiar and affectionate. “ _I_ wasn’t the one who got drugged and abducted yesterday, thanks very much.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and smiled weakly. “I just…don’t know how I’ll ever deserve you,” he said with a helpless sigh. 

Crowley was silent for a long second, then burst out laughing: huge, hearty guffaws from the depths of his stomach. He hugged him tighter and laughed and laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, shaking the whole bed and rattling the teacups in their saucers. 

“What-? Stop laughing, you- you silly twit!” Aziraphale elbowed him in the ribs, indignant. “What on earth could _possibly_ be funny?” He had to brace one hand on the tray to keep it from tipping over. 

“Nothing,” Crowley said, finally subsiding and scrubbing a few tears of mirth out of his eyes. “Nothing at all, angel, sorry, sorry.” He was still grinning ear to ear, though, and Aziraphale just stared over his shoulder at him in exasperation. 

“I was being serious!” he exclaimed, baffled. 

“I know.” Crowley was still smiling, but with a soft fondness now. "I know you were." He kissed his cheek, and ran his thumb down the other side of his face **.**

“Hmph.” _Ridiculous demon_. Aziraphale shook his head, pursing his lips and trying not to smile. It was impossible to stay irritated when he was giving off those waves of love like that. He could feel it radiating deep in his chest, near his heart, and even his confusion melted away in the face of that warmth. He blew out an exasperated breath and pulled the tray onto his lap. “I,” he proclaimed loftily, “am going to eat now.”

“You do that.”

Eating properly would have required Crowley to let go of him, but that was a price he wasn’t willing to pay at the moment. Etiquette didn’t seem terribly important today, so in a flurry of wild abandon – manners be damned – he simply miracled his hands clean, then folded one of the thin cakes up with his fingers and took a large bite. Sugar and lemon, with just a hint of butter. Absolutely scrumptious. He hummed contentedly and reclined back against him again, licking powdered sugar off his fingertips like some kind of uncultured lout **.**

“Come on, love, share these with me,” he insisted through the mouthful. 

Between them they quickly demolished the food, with gusto, and there was something wickedly delightful in throwing propriety to the wind. Crowley was partial to the strawberries and ended up eating most of them while Aziraphale worked his way through the pancakes. He finally drained his last gulp of tea, cleaned the last of the sugar from his fingers, and recovered some measure of decorum by dabbing his lips with the napkin that Crowley had so thoughtfully provided.

Fortified with good food, secure and comfortable and full now, he at last felt up to facing recent events. Might as well dive right into it. He slid the tray aside, then scooted over to sit next to Crowley instead of between his legs, so he could see his face. The demon looked at him curiously as he placed a hand on his knee. 

“My dear...what happened last night?” he asked frankly. “I still need to know. I don't know where we were, or how we got there...there’s an enormous blank spot in my memory where I have no idea what went on. It’s quite unsettling.”

Crowley‘s face went very still, and he said nothing. 

“Tell me, please,” Aziraphale urged. He took his hand and held it close to his chest, stroking the warm fingers. “You don’t have to deal with these kinds of things alone anymore. That's what I'm here for.” 

Crowley made a small noise that could have been a groan, and leaned his forehead against the side of his head. “It isn’t a very pretty story, angel,” he mumbled into his hair. 

“I should think not! Tell me anyway.” 

"Hnnnnnnngh." 

Finally, at his continued insistence, Crowley did. Reluctantly, and with many pauses, but he told him. Aziraphale held his hand and listened in morbid fascination as he recounted the story of Hastur’s attack upstairs. Of finding the pool of blood from where he passed out, and thinking he was dead. Crowley tried to gloss over that part pretty quickly, but Aziraphale knew him far too well- he could hear the rampant pain in his voice when he spoke about it, and he ached for him. He listened in, he must admit, a fair amount of renewed awe as Crowley told him about fireworks, and surprises, and desperate measures. How Hastur had ultimately caught and been about to kill him right when he did wake up. The rest, of course, he already knew.

He said nothing about the glaring omissions in the tale. Crowley’s body had told its own story last night, covered in bruises and lacerations and even broken bones that had been hidden at first beneath his ragged clothes. If he didn’t want to relive that, then he wouldn’t make him. 

There was a silence as Crowley finished speaking, both of them sitting there thinking their private thoughts. After a moment Aziraphale shook himself from his reverie and looked at him. 

“Something's bothering you, love- what is it? Don’t bother denying it, you know I can always tell.” In fairness, a blind man could probably tell. Crowley was the least subtle person alive, and he had the tendency to get all...broody, when something was particularly on his mind. He was doing it now, sitting hunched with his brows furrowed and tawny gaze fixed somewhere faraway. 

Crowley didn't answer right away, so he sat patiently and waited. He had found that sometimes he just had to let a question hang for a bit. 

“It was all my fault you were taken. My fault that you nearly died.” Crowley spoke so quietly that for a second Aziraphale wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. When he realised he had, he shifted to sit facing him directly, cross-legged, taking both his hands and leaning earnestly in.

“Darling, we went over this. Hastur hated both of us already, it wasn’t your fault!” 

“No, it was. Hastur was only going to try to kill me, until he sensed how- how I feel about you. He was never going to hurt you before that.” Crowley was avoiding his eyes, staring at their entwined fingers. “I knew what he was capable of. I should have- I made a terrible mistake, and nearly got you killed because I couldn’t keep myself under control. I was so _stupid_.” He said this last in a tone of bitter fury, like spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Aziraphale just looked at him, incredulous, then shook his head with a fond smile. “So, you're saying that it's all _your_ fault that Hastur went after me...because you love me so much you couldn’t hide it? Is that it?” There was a sweet, tender ache deep in his chest; he kissed Crowley's forehead and sighed. “My perfect, impossibly wonderful idiot. It is not stupid, or a failing, to care too much. It is, in fact, very very human, and part of why I love you. And if the price for you loving me is to risk attacks like that, then I'll pay it. A thousand times over. That's _my_ choice."

He freed one of his hands and lifted Crowley's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Besides. Just so we are clear? I didn’t fall in love with you because I thought you never made mistakes. I fell in love with you because you are like no one else I have ever met, and caring about things is part of that. I love you so very, very much.” He pulled him into his arms and hugged him, squeezing so tightly that his bones creaked. “You’re everything I never knew I wanted," he said softly. "You are an irreplaceable part of my heart. Nothing could ever change that.”

He grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him out to arms length, and gave him a very light shake. "So _stop_ with this _nonsense_. Alright?"

Crowley stared at him, taken aback, and after a long moment his mouth slowly curved into that little smirk that he knew so well. "Well, okay then. Fine." He took his face between his hands, and brushed his thumb over his lips. The smirk widened into a true smile. "If you insist, angel." 

"I do," he replied firmly, and kissed him, equally firmly. "We still do have one problem, though." 

"What problem?" 

Aziraphale chuckled and reached up to wipe a little bit of grime away from his cheekbone. “I’m not sure even demons are supposed to be this dirty,” he said. "You look rather like a chimney sweep." Their bed was going to need a miracle to get anywhere near clean again, and a quick glance down at himself earlier had revealed that he had smudged, sooty handprints all over his own body, some of which were in very interesting places. 

Crowley's scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, oh pardon _me_ , mister high and mighty angel! Next time I'll be sure to powder my nose and perfume myself before entering your blessed company. Also, I'll have you know that demons are expected to-” 

“I really think we should take a bath.”

“-to...uuhhhhhh...to be clean. Incredibly clean, you couldn’t be more right.” Crowley practically leapt out of bed, and held out his hand to him, beckoning. "Come on. This time you're coming with me." 

* * *


	5. An Ever-Fixed Mark

* * *

It was around five in the evening, and it had been a perfectly relaxing and healing day.

They had finally taken their so rudely interrupted bath, and _damn_...it had been worth the wait. Crowley gingerly ran his hands through his hair, picking at the strange ragged edges with his fingertips. He sighed. At least it was clean. It had felt so good to scrub himself free of all the firework soot and grime; there had been something purifying in the process that went far deeper than skin.

Granted, he hadn't spent all that much time scrubbing. Most of their long, very pleasant hour in the tub had been otherwise occupied. He could still feel the echoes of that hour, sending warm shivers through him: Lavender-scented hot water enveloping his body; creamy white soap bubbles popping on the surface; hands clenched tight on the slick edges of the tub; and Aziraphale giving him an _incredible..._ demonstration of just how little angels needed to breathe. 

They had spent the rest of the day simply being near each other in various small ways, dressed only in their pyjamas, both of them loathe to let the other out of their sight. A couple perfect hours had been whiled away lying in Aziraphale’s soft lap while the angel read a book, holding his hand with thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, occasionally dozing off with his cheek against his stomach.At one point he had woken to find Menace curled up on his chest, emerald eyes staring at him as if daring him to comment. He'd been too sleepy and comfortable to even bother objecting, so he'd let him stay. It certainly wasn’t because the little cat was warm, or because the low purring felt soothing as he pet him. Definitely not. 

In the face of all that relaxation the humming anxiety had finally abated, so he had thrown on some actual clothes and was taking a reluctant few minutes apart to tend to his houseplants. He had planned to water them yesterday, but for obvious reasons that hadn’t happened. 

The Garden Room (as Aziraphale had started calling it) was adjacent to the sitting room, in the far corner of the house. It was not large, only the size of your average bedroom, but he'd chosen it because two of the walls were nearly entirely windows from floor to ceiling. Those latticed windows faced the back garden area and let in quite a lot of sun, making the room perfect for his purposes. Over the last month he had managed to cram it with so much greenery that it more closely resembled a small, eclectic forest than a room in a house. Long, large folding tables ran the length of each wall, each displaying a wide assortment of potted plants of varying sizes. There were delicate ferns and large waving palms, dragon trees and peace lilies and sansevieria. A few were the same ones from his old flat, but everything else in the room was new. Decorative planters hung suspended from the ceiling, overflowing with drooping creeper vines and ivy; small wooden shelves on the walls held everything from peonies to daisies. In one corner, between the ends of two tables stood the crown jewel: an apple tree in an enormous terra cotta pot. A moving-in gift from Aziraphale, one that he suspected the cheeky bastard intended as a bit of a joke, but he loved it nonetheless. Crowley had been secretly pleased when it broke out into hundreds of little white blossoms. Those blossoms had sadly all dropped off a couple weeks ago as the springtime faded into summer, but there were still other flowers to add sweetness to the earthy smells. 

He walked around the room, floorboards creaking under his bare feet, spritzing leaves with the mister and checking the soils. It was quiet and therapeutic and delightfully boring after the (mostly) horrible previous evening. His nerves still felt frayed. He ran a fingertip down one glossy leaf, brushing away a bit of dirt. There was something so soothing about making things grow, to create something alive from nothing at all, and deep down he was fiercely proud of the results. His demonic life had been largely spent working towards destroying things- reputations, relationships, moods. It hadn’t been all bad; some of it had been quite fun, but...gardening was an opportunity to create something, to tend to life rather than tear it down. 

He twitched guiltily out of reflexive habit. Of course, he had never said any of _that_ stuff aloud. It still made him squirm to even think it. Those bastards in Hell weren’t very understanding of any hobby that didn’t involve some kind of devilish intent; management would have been far more thrilled if he had taken up, for example, telemarketing, or parking enforcement. Or tax collection. They had given the snide side-eye to his little gardening operation for years, and for years Crowley had insisted to them (and himself) that he only kept the plants to practice his terror and domination skills. And of course there were plenty of days where he did indeed terrorize them, but he had felt like doing that less and less lately. The truth was that he simply liked growing things. Now that he didn’t have to care what Head Office thought, for the first time in his life he was free to indulge a bit. 

To his immense relief and everlasting affection, Aziraphale hadn’t made fun of him at all, not even so much as a smirk. The angel had cheerfully accompanied him to the local garden centre to help pick out new additions, and was responsible for some of the more flowery choices. 

In another corner of the room, next to one of the windows, he paused to wipe some dust off a large, white marble statue half-hidden among the fronds. He had insisted on bringing it from his flat, even though it barely fit in the space and Aziraphale had looked askance at it. The masterfully carved figure depicted a winged angel and demon, unclothed, caught frozen in the midst of…something. Crowley smirked. To be honest, no matter how many times he looked at it he wasn’t entirely clear on what they were doing, but regardless he was certain that the demon was winning. It was always good for a chuckle. He wandered through the rest of the room, eyeing flowers for spots and double-checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. 

“Oh, Crowley dear?” 

Crowley paused mid-spray. He knew that tone in his voice very well- the tightly controlled excitement. He was up to something. He grinned to himself, then arranged his face into a nonchalant expression and turned slowly on the spot. 

Aziraphale was standing there in the doorway behind him. Sure enough, he had his hands behind his back and was bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his leather-shod feet. He was clean and well-groomed once again, tidily dressed in his favourite clothing, missing only the pocket watch and bow tie. He looked bright and cheerful and exactly as if nothing untoward had ever happened. It was a sight beautiful enough to ease any weary soul. 

He also had the little glint in his eye that he only got when he had one of his absurd ideas, like the time he presented him with the most _hideous_ jumper to wear. That was a very dangerous look. Crowley eyed him warily. “What have you got there?” 

Aziraphale beamed, and turned a little bit pink. “Well, after yesterday, I was thinking that we should try and make every day special. And _that_ got me thinking...”

“Uh huh…” _Uh oh._

Aziraphale whipped his hands out from behind his back so suddenly that Crowley flinched, but he was only holding out a small, brightly coloured package. 

“Happy birthday!” he burst out delightedly. 

Crowley stared at him, then at the box. It was flat, wrapped in shiny blue paper and bound with gold ribbon inexpertly tied into a bow. “Er…what?” He wondered if Aziraphale had somehow managed to get drunk in the ten minutes that they’d been apart.

“Happy birthday,” the angel repeated firmly, still beaming. He didn’t _look_ drunk.

“Yes, angel, I heard what you said. That was a different kind of ‘what’.”

“You should be more specific, then.” 

“You knew what I meant.” 

“I can’t read your mind, love.” 

This was starting to veer off topic. Crowley pinched between his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He didn’t have a headache, but it felt like he should. “Angel, we don’t _have_ birthdays.” 

“Well yes, obviously,” Aziraphale said. “But. It occurred to me that we don’t really have many holidays that we celebrate. And human holidays always seemed like such fun. I thought it might be nice to each choose a day to designate as our birthdays, so then we could give each other gifts every year. And cake.” He kept smiling, undeterred as usual by his lack of enthusiasm. “And it will help with the human charade, of course,” he added hastily. 

_Of all the insane ideas...._ Crowley opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but then he looked at Aziraphale’s face. The blue eyes were bright and excited, and he realized with dismay that he was still holding out the wrapped present, looking hopefully at him. Crowley softened. He supposed it wasn’t a bad idea, just ridiculous, but if it made Aziraphale happy then what could it hurt? And he had to admit that he was intrigued. “Oh, all right,” he said, brushing dirt off his hands onto his jeans. He reached out to take the box and glanced down at it, shaking it back and forth slightly. It wasn’t very heavy. “What is this?” 

“Well, you have to open it to find out. That’s rather the point of wrapping a present,” the angel replied archly. 

“Fair enough,” Crowley said with a sigh. “How about I open it once I have one for you too? That way we can open them together.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to do that. Well…I mean, it’s nothing very big, really.” Aziraphale suddenly looked awkward, fiddling nervously with his wedding ring. That was becoming a habit. “It was just something from a while ago that I thought…well, you’ll see. Go ahead and open it.”

It occurred to Crowley in a blinding flash of rare insight that Aziraphale had simply wanted an excuse to give him a gift. The realization made his chest swell with affection, and he snaked an arm around the velvet-clad waist and pulled him into a hug. The angel hugged him back, beaming at him, and he would have sold his soul for that smile. 

“Okay, my angel. If you’re sure.”

Curiosity well and truly pricked now, Crowley carefully untied the gold ribbon and set it aside on the table next to him. He tore off the blue wrapping paper (and where exactly had he gotten that? It didn’t look miracled), then opened the flat cardboard box. Inside, wrapped in a single layer of crisp white tissue paper, was an ancient-looking, dusty leather book. The text on the cover was faded and worn to illegibility, and the yellowed pages were crumbling at the edges. It smelled faintly of smoke, but not just any smoke. Something particular and immediately familiar, poking at a deep-seated memory, though he couldn’t place it. 

“Oh, wow! It’s, a, uh...er...” Crowley stared at it, but no revelation was forthcoming. He finally looked up at Aziraphale and cracked a sheepish smile. “Huh. What is this?” 

The angel flushed and clasped his hands behind his back. “Well I- in light of everything that’s happened, I wanted to give you something special, to make things right, and I wasn’t sure what- it’s a prophecy book,” he stammered. “One of the prophecy books from- from the church, when you came to rescue me during the Blitz, do you remember? Those books you saved for me, that night with the Nazis all those years ago? I thought you might like to have it, as a memento of sorts, because…well…” He was blushing furiously now, nearly beet red. “It was when I first truly realized I was in love with you,” he said all in a rush. “And that you might actually love me.” 

Crowley looked down at the book and opened his mouth to reply, and found that he couldn’t. 

Did he _remember_? He could still smell the smoky, war-torn air. Memories crashed in like a bolt of lightning, and it was suddenly 1941 again; he was standing at the threshold of a very old church, heart pounding with anxiety, looking up at the stained glass windows and wondering if he had gone mad. He remembered pain, the flagstones searing under his feet as he hurried along, so hot that his soles had blistered and ached for days afterwards. Nerves twisting like snakes in his stomach as he laid eyes on the angel for the first time in nearly eighty years, the first time since their terrible argument at the park. Glowing almost golden in the candlelight, mouth open in surprise. How the sight of him standing there had hit him like a shot of warm brandy on an empty stomach, the sound of his voice like water on his parched soul. He remembered the sense of aching relief when he didn’t tell him to go away. He had actually seemed happy to see him…

And then, at the bookshop, dropping Aziraphale off home. Leaning against the car door with aching feet as the silence stretched long, trying so hard to look casual, hoping against hope that he would invite him in for a drink like old times. That a bag of unburnt books would have made everything right between them. And the angel standing quiet on the doorstep, hat twisting in nervous hands, avoiding his eyes as he shifted from foot to foot. Decades of unspoken things seething in the air between them, so thick you could cut it. _“Well, goodnight then.”_ A lump in his throat as big as the entire world... 

He realized he was still just standing there clutching the priceless book with both hands, thunderstruck. The intensity of the memory took him completely off guard; it hit him like a knife right in the emotions that were still raw from the day before, and left him reeling. He swallowed, trying to find his voice, but it seemed to have business elsewhere. He looked up at Aziraphale, and something in his face must have revealed what he was remembering. The angel took a hesitant step towards him, expression so uncertain, and suddenly they were there, standing on that bookshop doorstep again, staring at one another. Rather than try to speak, Crowley just reached out towards him, the way he had yearned to then, and this time Aziraphale did not turn away. He stepped into his arms without hesitation and held him so tightly that it hurt. Crowley clung to him with book still in hand, joy bursting through him. “Of course I loved you,” he muttered in his ear. “I love you so much.” The words were still accompanied by a jolt of anxiety, even now, but it was getting easier to ignore that. He’d been practicing.

Aziraphale sighed, arms around his neck. “I love you too, darling. I always did.” He looked up at him, blue eyes soft and full of regret. “I’m so sorry I was such a fool.” He kissed his cheek, gently, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Crowley returned the kiss with such wild enthusiasm that he nearly bowled him over, pushing him insistently back until they bumped into the nearest table. He bent him backwards into a cluster of plants and kissed him among the glossy leaves, hips grinding slowly against each other, hands tangled in each other’s hair and the rich smells of earth and greenery thick in their nostrils. Aziraphale slid one arm around his neck and the other hand between them, fumbling between his legs, and Crowley could only groan and kiss him harder. In a blink that hand had his fly open and was down under his pants, rubbing. 

“This,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, “is how that night should have ended.” He kissed him fiercely, hand stroking, and Crowley let out another helpless groan against his mouth. “I should have done this with you after the Bastille. After the church. After Armageddon. A hundred times in between.”

“Yeah,” Crowley ground out. His voice had gone husky and deep, arms clenched around his husband’s waist. He gasped as the hand wrapped around him and squeezed, and his voice was abruptly higher as he said, “But better late than never, right?” 

“I couldn’t agree more. Get _over_ here.” Then Aziraphale had one hand on his dirt smudged t-shirt and was yanking him forward with casual strength by both points of contact.

There was no arguing with that kind of persuasion. A single wild sweep of his arm and power sent all the plants sliding out of their way, all the way down to the far end of the table. With a desperate exclamation Crowley pushed him down on his back and crawled onto the table atop him, still trying to kiss him all the while. There was just barely enough room for them both; their heads were nearly fetched up against the apple tree. A tiny sane corner of Crowley's mind noted that this wasn’t the most practical location, but the rest of his mind immediately told that corner to fuck right off. He wiggled out of his jeans and kicked them away, then through some sort of frenzied legerdemain and much flailing managed to remove Aziraphale’s shoes and khaki trousers as well. 

Then their hands were on each other and those legs were around his hips, yanking him down, and with a gasped miracle and quick shift of position Crowley finally eased inside him. He exhaled hard and kissed him, softly, cradling his head in one hand. “Aziraphale,” he murmured, pouring all the love he was feeling into the word. 

The angel shivered beneath him, and tiny white flowers suddenly sprang up on the tree branches around their heads, opening petal by petal. “Oh, my. Say that again, love,” he whispered. 

Gladly. He would happily say his name every moment of every day, without end. He leaned in and placed another burning kiss behind his ear. “Aziraphale,” he said softly, caressing the name with his tongue like a prayer. “ _Aziraphale,_ ” he breathed, and now it was nearly a moan. “Aziraphale. My beautiful angel.” 

The angel moaned and reached up to grasp fistfuls of his hair and shirt, anchoring him. “Crowley. My perfect love,” he murmured, and tightened his grip. 

Then they were having frantic sex right there on the table. Aziraphale clutched him hard against his body with both hands, demanding and surrendering all at once, and it was so beautiful that Crowley could have cried. He clenched his eyes shut and held his angel close as memories flooded in thick and fast. The scents of earth and plants faded; it was 1941 again with the smell of war in his nostrils, and he was taking him the way he had so desperately wanted to back then, even if he hadn’t fully realized it. He took him with all the relief of the past day and all the pent up love that he had hoarded over the years, the love that had driven him into that prison and church and warehouse to rescue him, and there was so much that he was going to burst at the seams. He loved him with every ecstatic push of his hips and squeeze of his hands, every aching beat of his heart, and he loved him, he loved him, _he loved him_ …. 

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale gasped beneath him, looking dazed. He was staring up at him with such innocent, uninhibited awe, and suddenly all around them the garden was bursting into furious bloom. Purple crocuses were unfurling in their pots, months out of season; fresh green shoots were bursting out of the soil with rampant enthusiasm. Vines slithered out of the planters and down to the floor, scurrying up the table legs and twining themselves eagerly around tools and other plants. 

_What the...._ Crowley paused and looked around in utter amazement for a second, but then a hand seized the front of his shirt and yanked him back down, and his attention was fully occupied once again. He grabbed that wrist and pinned it to the table above his head with one hand, and redoubled his efforts. His touch was soft but his grip was firm, his strokes were deep and steady. His mouth was hot against the upturned throat, his husband’s moans of pleasure vibrating against his lips. They both knew that Aziraphale could have thrown him across the room without difficulty, one-handed, but right now he was his; he was his, and he was finally saying yes to him. His own personal miracle. 

The flimsy table was not built for this and creaked and swayed alarmingly, slamming against the wall like a battering ram. More than one potted plant succumbed to gravity and toppled over with a crash, some on top of them, but for once Crowley didn’t care. There were many ferns and only one angel. He had lost time to make up for, second chances to seize, and nothing so stupid as either plants or furniture integrity was going to interfere with that. Let the table break. Let the whole damn house collapse on top of them, and the sky as well. Neither of them paid it any attention, nor the dirt and leaves that ground into their clothes from the spilled pots, nor the vines that snaked over their entwined hands and spun tiny tendrils between their fingers. He only clutched his flank and thrust harder as they both moaned each other’s names and sweat through their remaining clothes. The only thing that mattered or existed at all was each other; everything else could bloody well _wait_.

The frantic pace couldn’t last for long. Neither of them were exercising any restraint, and all too soon he was bracing himself against the wall and groaning out his orgasm, forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s. “That’s it, darling,” the angel whispered. "I love you." He had come only a couple moments earlier and was holding him tightly with eyes closed, still shuddering.

Crowley just rested there atop him in the silence that followed, catching his breath and letting their stormy heartbeats subside. Enjoying his husband's tea-and-parchment smell, the soft skin of his neck under his lips. He kissed that softness again, smiling, then paused as a thought occurred to him. “Uhhh. You know, it’s really excellent luck that this room’s windows face the back garden instead of the front.” 

Aziraphale snickered, then burst out laughing. Crowley started laughing too, and they laughed themselves breathless at the absurdity of it all. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale commented at last, opening his eyes. He was still grinning. “That would certainly be one way to get the human neighbours to leave us alone.” 

“True.” Chuckling, Crowley kissed his neck once more and tried to let go of Aziraphale’s wrist, and found that he couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t move those fingers at all. He frowned and raised his head to look, then slowly pulled their connected hands down, over Aziraphale’s head, to stare at them.

Thick vines of ivy had wrapped themselves around their hands, wrists, and between their fingers, binding them together so tightly that they would have to tear them to get free. Even as he looked, the vines began throwing out tiny purple bell-shaped flowers, one at a time, which was doubly baffling because this was not a flowering species of vine at all. 

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, then both slowly turned their heads to look around for the first time. 

If the room had been a forest before, it now more closely resembled a primeval jungle. Vines covered absolutely everything, draping from the hanging planters to the tables and wall shelves like spiderwebs; even the windowframes were heavy with ivy leaves. Every plant in the room stood a couple inches taller than it had before. There were new buds on every visible branch and stalk; fresh spurts of green and tender sprigs had flung themselves haphazard out over the edges of the pots and poked from every vacant bit of soil. The growth was most pronounced on the plants closest to their table, spreading outward from them as if they lay at the epicenter of an explosion. Flowers bloomed everywhere he looked, flowers of all kinds and shapes, flowers he had never seen before: strange and beautiful and wild-looking blooms, with brilliantly-coloured drooping petals and gold stamens. 

“Whoaaah. What did you do?” Crowley asked in a hushed voice. 

Aziraphale was blinking around in equal astonishment. “I- I don’t think it was me. I surely didn’t do anything on purpose...” He trailed off, and they both just lay there holding each other, breathing in the almost overpowering perfume of the apple blossoms. You could barely see the little tree anymore for all the white flowers. As they watched, one set of petals dropped and the bud swelled into a small, glossy red apple. 

“Er...that’s not supposed to happen until autumn,” Crowley said automatically. “What the...” 

More silence. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, and his face was the picture of bafflement. “I have no idea,” he said. He gave a helpless shrug and gazed around again. “It’s pretty, though?” 

Crowley laughed, still feeling light with wonder. “Yeah, I guess as far as surprises go...it’s a massive upgrade from the usual.” 

* * *

Aziraphale lay there, looking around at the newly wild garden room. He had absolutely no clue what to make of it, but that was hardly an unusual feeling nowadays. Strange, beautifully inexplicable things seemed to have become rather a theme for them lately. 

“Here, let me...” Crowley carefully picked at the flowered vines gripping their hands, finally using a small miracle to get the plants to (reluctantly) release them. Once they were disentangled he slowly rolled off him, off the table and stood up, still staring around at the green chaos of the room. “I think I like it,” he declared, hands on his hips. “I might leave it like this.” He turned and offered him his hand. “You sure you didn’t do this? I’m sure it wasn’t me.” 

“As sure as I can be.” Aziraphale took it and pulled himself up into a sitting position. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, swinging his legs over the side of the table. “You would think that after six thousand years on this earth, not much would be able to surprise us. And yet here we are.” He looked around the room again, at the riot of colour and life all around them, then at Crowley and smiled. “I quite _like_ that.” He squeezed his hand and released it, and in doing so glanced down and noticed for the first time what a mess he had made of his waistcoat and shirt. He had been lying in a pile of dirt, for heavens sake. “Oh, blast it.” He sighed. “Darling, can you-” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’ve got it, angel,” he sighed dramatically. A few rapid snaps of his fingers took care of all the stains on both their clothes, dirt and otherwise.

Aziraphale beamed at him, then slid off the table and quickly pulled his trousers back on. He felt light and happy and curiously adventurous all of a sudden. “Come on, love, get dressed. I’m taking you out to dinner before anything else happens," he declared.

Crowley made no move to retrieve his clothes; he only lounged back against the table and waggled his eyebrows at him with a lazy smile. “Dinner, huh? Aren’t you supposed to do that _first_?” He grinned wickedly at Aziraphale’s eye roll, then bent and scooped up his jeans and underwear from the floor. “Scandalous, truly scandalous, especially for an angel,” he said, hopping on one leg as he yanked them on. “Ambushing me in my own garden, robbing me of my virtue like a true scoundrel. And here I thought you were such a proper gentleman!”

“Oh, Good Lord.” Aziraphale shoved playfully at him, and favoured him with a wicked grin of his own. “I don’t know where you got _that_ idea.” 

“Eh. That’s true.” Crowley smirked as he finished wiggling into his clothes. “If you were a proper gentleman you'd be no fun at all.” He paused in the middle of buttoning his jeans and looked around at the floor in sudden alarm. "Oh shit- the book, where did I put..." 

"Ahem." Aziraphale reached up to the closest shelf and retrieved the prophecy book from behind a pot of exotic-looking pink flowers. He had to wrestle it free from the ivy that had twined around it, but he managed. He brushed it off and held it out to him, feeling very pleased with himself. "Here you go, love. I saw you drop it earlier when things got...heated, so I miracled it up there for safekeeping.” He faltered, suddenly unsure, remembering the almost pained look on his face. “Although...you really don’t have to keep it if it’s too painful a memory; I’m sorry I didn’t think of that, I didn’t mean to...”

Crowley stepped close and took the book almost reverently, as if it were made of glass. He put two fingers over his lips, stopping his anxious babbling, then leaned in and kissed him. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he said quietly, fingertips still touching his chin. “Thank you for the gift, angel. You said something about dinner?”

* * *

About half an hour later Aziraphale was waiting in the front entryway, fiddling with his pocketwatch and arranging it just so on his miraculously-clean waistcoat. He checked his hair in the small round mirror on the wall by the door and made a few nervous little adjustments to his bow tie. It was a new one, a slightly different pattern than usual, and he very much hoped that Crowley would like it. He wanted to look especially nice for him tonight, after everything. Maybe he should put on new cologne as well; he probably still had time if he hurried upstairs...

Just then the demon came through the door from the kitchen- and Aziraphale forgot all about his own clothes. 

Crowley was now wearing a dark blue suit - one of only two he owned, the same midnight-blue suit he had worn the night he asked Aziraphale to marry him. He wore it as if he was angry at it, but heavens did he look _good_ doing it. He had also attempted to style his hair per the usual, but it still had a slightly shaggy, raw appearance from the near-fatal burning he'd survived. Dark red hair fell over his forehead in jagged pieces and...Good Lord, it only contrived to make him even _more_ rakishly handsome. Aziraphale felt his heart speed up, and his collar was suddenly just a bit too tight. Crowley looked ever so dashing and elegant and all around...absolutely marvelous. 

“Well, you said it was a special occasion,” he muttered at his delighted expression. “Might as well do this thing properly.” 

“Mmm hmm.” Aziraphale simply couldn’t bring himself to pretend with him tonight. He said nothing more, but only looked him up and down, smiling so hard that he thought he might pop. 

Crowley flushed and rolled his eyes. He stalked over to the door and opened it, then reached back towards him and twitched his fingers. “Come on, angel,” he said without turning around.

Grinning wide enough to split his face, bursting with pride that he was his, Aziraphale took his hand and followed. 

* * *

The restaurant was packed, and Aziraphale recalled with a start that it was a Friday night. Had the entire ordeal really only just happened yesterday evening? Unbelievable. It certainly felt like a full week had gone by since the previous morning. What a difference a mere day could make. Relief and happiness coloured the world in brighter shades; everything around him seemed just a bit shinier after knowing he could have lost it forever.

He looked up at his husband, who was hidden away behind his dark glasses once again. Lean and angular and lovely in his dark suit. Crowley had kept a firm grip on his hand during the drive over, and now had an equally firm arm around his waist as they waited to get through the door. He had barely let go of him for more than five minutes all day, in fact, and Aziraphale knew the horror of nearly losing him again would stay fresh for a while. He would have to be especially gentle with him until that healed. He squeezed his own arm around him reassuringly, and Crowley glanced over, his habitually serious expression softening into a smile. He'd been doing that a lot, too: glancing at him constantly as if to make sure he hadn't up and vanished. Aziraphale sighed internally. 

He would have given anything in the world to not be the source of yet more nightmare fuel. At least there had been no bad dreams last night, thank the Lord. He always woke when he had them, always slept with one ear alert for that telltale gasp of fear so he could hold and rock him back to sleep. Crowley deserved all the sweet dreams he could give, and it was one of his greatest regrets that angelic mind powers had no effect on demons. He would have gladly stolen away all his nightmares forever. Barring that, he would simply be extra vigilant while this new pain faded, even if it meant he didn’t sleep for a month. He had caused him so much pain that it was the least he could do.

For the hundredth time that day he was overwhelmed with a rush of love for him, and this time it was fiercely protective. Nothing and no one was going to hurt his Crowley ever again, not ever, not as long as he was alive to stop it. His demon deserved the entire world, all the happiness life could give, and he was going to make sure he got it. On impulse he reached up on his toes and kissed the warm cheekbone, squeezing him a bit tighter. Let everyone see. He suddenly wanted to shout it: _Here is the most devastatingly beautiful creature alive, and he is mine_. He had not driven him away; he was actually allowed to touch him. He was so very, undeservedly lucky.

As they finally approached the host stand, he let his hand drift ever so slightly down his back, until it was just a touch lower than was proper. Crowley turned his head very, very slowly to look at him, and raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale looked back with a deliberately innocent expression, keeping the leaping amusement he was feeling tucked well below the surface. It didn’t look like Crowley bought it this time, though. He was beginning to grow wise to his tactics. 

“Are you sure you want to play that game?” the demon murmured quietly in his ear, and he could hear the smirk in his voice. “If you remember, that didn’t turn out so well for you that night before we moved...you wouldn’t want to be embarrassed again, would you?” 

“Oh, ho.” In a burst of wild giddiness Aziraphale grabbed him around the narrow waist, pulled him fully into his arms, and kissed him on the mouth in full view of everyone in the crowded restaurant. He didn’t make it quick, either, but held it for a slow count of five before releasing him. 

Crowley could hardly have looked more stunned if he had produced a live octopus and smacked him with it. He stood rooted to the spot while his entire face and neck turned bright scarlet, hands frozen at his sides, and Aziraphale could feel his own cheeks burning too. He cleared his throat and straightened his bow tie. “There,” he said, fighting back a huge, silly grin. He could feel people staring, and it only intensified the urge to giggle like a maniac. “ _That’s_ what I think of your threats.” He took Crowley’s hand and kissed it, then turned to the gawking hostess, a blonde lady in her early twenties, and said, “Reservation under A. Fell, please,” with firm dignity. 

“Um, right. Right this way, gentlemen.” 

They walked through the restaurant hand in hand, Aziraphale trying not to look too smug while his husband slowly drained from bright plum back to a normal human colour. At one table they passed, a man glared at them and muttered something under his breath. In his peripheral vision Aziraphale saw Crowley turn his head sharply to meet his stare. He wasn’t sure what exactly Crowley did, as he was turned away, but the man’s face swiftly changed from disgust to shock, and turned deathly pale. 

He stifled an undignified snicker, cheeks still rather warm. Crowley glanced over at him, then slid his arm around his waist and tugged him possessively close. “Mine,” he whispered in his ear, and of course he _was_. 

——

“So,” Crowley said, some time later.

Aziraphale had just accepted his fourth glass of excellent white wine from the waiter with a nod of thanks. Dinner had been spectacular: pan-fried sole and vegetables in a butter sauce delicious enough to die for, and Crowley had worked his way through some kind of rich shellfish ragout. Comfortably replete, they now had a dessert apiece and plenty of wine, and were taking their time about it. So far they had paid more attention to the wine. 

"So what?" He was happy to see that Crowley’s smiles had grown wider and easier throughout the meal, no doubt with the help of the alcohol. He had even taken off his sunglasses, and his eyes looked even more golden in the low light. The restaurant was still busy, and those eyes had attracted more than one double take, but neither of them were in the mood to care. 

“I’ve decided what to give you for your birthday.” He rolled his eyes at the word, but the smile didn’t go away. He picked up his own freshly-filled wine glass and took a discerning sip, then a larger one, and lounged back in his chair. 

“Darling, you don’t have to do that, at least not today.” In truth, he had mostly wanted to thank him and express his love for everything he had done the night before. He had ended up thanking him quite thoroughly indeed. 

“No, no, it’s decided. But you don’t get to have it until much later tonight.” 

“Indeed?” Aziraphale looked at him, and very slowly raised his eyebrows. 

Crowley’s smile turned into a smirk. “No, angel. It's not that.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt very slightly disappointed. “Alright then.” He took a consoling gulp of wine. 

“I mean, it _can_ be that too, if you play your cards right.” Crowley picked up his spoon and took a large bite of his sorbet, wincing as the cold hit the roof of his mouth. “But- _ow_ \- no, I just need to wait for it to get dark.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m going to show you something I’ve never shown anyone.” 

"Goodness.” 

He laughed, and there was no more lovely sound in the world. “Just...wait until later, angel.” 

“Well then.” Aziraphale reached out and pulled his plate of sticky toffee pudding closer, and picked up his fork. “I’m very curious to see what you have in mind.”

* * *

“Perfect,” Crowley said suddenly. He was looking at his watch. He carefully moved a protesting Menace off his lap, then pushed himself up off the sofa. “Come on, then, angel.” 

“Hm?” Aziraphale looked up from his book, startled. It was very late. They had been curled on the sofa in near-silence together for the last couple hours. Crowley had been watching one of his action films while the angel read a novel and sipped contentedly at a cup of tea.

“You heard me.” Crowley reached out and plucked the book out of his hand, carefully placed a bookmark on the page and set it on the side table. “Don’t you want your gift?” He jerked his head towards the back door.

“Wh-?” He’d completely forgotten. “Wait, what? Where could we possibly be going at-” he glanced at the clock on the mantel “-almost midnight?”

Crowley didn’t answer, but only held out his hand and smirked at him. 

He couldn’t resist it when he was roguish and handsome like that. “Well. Aren’t we mysterious tonight.” Aziraphale smiled and stood up, and took his hand. Crowley grinned, and an instant later snapped his fingers and extinguished every single light in the house, including the television. 

“Crowley!” he protested. “What are you playing at? It’s black as pitch!” He groped around, suddenly afraid of crashing into something.

“I’m letting your eyes adjust, for your night vision.” He was definitely enjoying this, he sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“I swear, Crowley, if I smack into a wall or something, I’ll-”

“You won’t, I promise. You’re fine, my angel; I’ve got you. Just follow me.” Crowley’s hand was warm and steady on his own, calloused fingers gripping his other wrist as he led him through the dark room, out the back door and into the garden. 

It was slightly more visible out here; pale silver starlight was just bright enough to make out where he was going. It was a good sized area, ringed by trees large enough to provide some privacy but not so large as to block out the sky. Crowley led him down the cobblestone path and across the lawn, until they were standing in the very centre of the space. A quick glance around showed him that indeed all the lights had been extinguished, including the nearby street lights. It was a clear summer night, far clearer than anything they ever had in London, and the complete dark brought the starry sky into sharp relief. The country really did have the most gorgeous scenery. “Alright. What exactly are we doing out here?” 

Crowley was a slim dark silhouette next to him, still holding his hand, and he was looking up at the sky. “It should be almost right overhead. Ah, here we are.” He pulled Aziraphale over and wrapped his arms around him from behind, one arm across his chest and the other around his waist, enveloping him in that radiating body heat. The night wasn’t chilly enough to really need it, but it still felt like curling up in front of a fire. Aziraphale sighed happily.

“Do you see that star, right there?” Crowley said quietly in his ear. He took his hand by the wrist and pointed, above them and just a little to the east, sighting along his outstretched finger. “That one, the big bright one in that group.”

Aziraphale quickly found the one he meant. It was the brightest one visible in that part of the sky, by far. “Oh yes, lovely. I believe the humans call that one ‘[Vega](https://www.space.com/21719-vega.html)[’](https://www.space.com/21719-vega.htmlW),” he commented. 

“Mm hm. Well, I made that one, once upon a time.” Crowley hugged him tightly as they both stared up at the heavens. 

“Really?” Aziraphale said in wonder. Crowley never spoke about this sort of thing, never spoke of the time Before, and he never asked. He didn’t want to prod at a painful subject, and how could it be anything but painful? He gazed up in new admiration at the familiar star, twinkling above them like a blue-white diamond. “It’s so beautiful. I never got to build any stars.”

“It’s my favourite one.” Warm lips kissed behind his ear. “But what I wanted to tell you was that ever since we met it reminded me of you, so I’ve always thought of it as yours.” He cleared his throat, the way he always did when he was embarrassed. “After the Garden I named it after you. And whenever I hadn't seen you for a while I used to go outside and look for it. I designed it to be visible nearly year-round, and bright enough to be seen even on a moonlit night, so it was always there. As long as I could find that star you didn’t seem quite so far away.” He said this last bit in a rush. “I wanted you to know about it, so if we ever get separated again you would have something to look for as well.” 

“I...” Aziraphale just stood there, at a loss for words, staring up at the sky and fighting back a lump of emotion in his throat. His heart felt too big for his chest, a curious phenomenon that happened all too frequently around his husband. How was it, he wondered, that Crowley always managed to show him up so thoroughly? He’d been so proud of his little book gift, and now it seemed so paltry by comparison. And by telling him such a private thing Crowley had given him something even more precious than a star. 

“I know it’s not a real gift, not the way yours was,” Crowley said quickly, as the quiet got longer. There was a hint of worry in his voice. “I can’t wrap it for you, or anything. But I thought you might like to know that it’s yours. It used to be the North Star before the damn axis did its thing. But it will be again! Just give it another ten thousand years or so…er…maybe eleven thousand…” He sounded slightly dispirited now. “But it’s still-”

“Darling.” Aziraphale finally cut in, putting a merciful end to the spiral. “I _love_ it. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received. I was just trying to think of what to say.” 

“Really?” 

“Truly. I promise.”

“Oh, good.” Crowley sighed and rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Many Happy Returns, then,” he said, voice wry now. 

“Thank you, love. Though I only ever want to see it together. You had better not be planning to run off anywhere.”

“Ha. Not without you.” Crowley shifted to wrap his arms tighter around his chest, and lifted one leg to curl around his knee as well. “You only wish you could get rid of me that easily.”

“No, I don’t.” Aziraphale twisted around to kiss him, but he’d forgotten that Crowley was standing on only one leg, and the sudden motion caused him to wobble and overbalance. Crowley clutched at him, desperately trying to right himself, but only succeeded in unbalancing him as well. Down they both went onto the lawn in a jarring tangle of limbs. Crowley was laughing, eyes closed and sprawled on his back, still keeping a tight hold around his waist while Aziraphale thrashed around in the dark. “Oof, for heavens sakes- let go, you ridiculous serpent, I’m getting grass stains all over my-” Crowley pulled his face down and kissed him, and he suddenly didn’t care so much about grass stains. 

For a long while they just lay there kissing on the damp grass with the stars burning overhead, cool wet seeping into the knees of his trousers and Crowley’s warm hands on his cheeks. His body heat rose up below him, and he was solid and dry and wonderful. 

Crowley finally stopped and looked up at him. “My back is getting soaked,” he said. 

“Serves you right.” He kissed him again. “My trousers will never be the same.” He sighed internally. He'd probably ruined more clothes in the last year than in his entire existence prior. With a grunt he stood up and brushed himself off as best he could, then pulled Crowley to his feet as well. 

There was a carved stone bench a few paces behind them, and Crowley led him over to sit down. Aziraphale put his head on his shoulder and slid an arm around his waist. The entire back of him was indeed wet and cold, so he ran a hand from his shoulders down to his backside (lingering just a touch longer than necessary) and with a drop of magic left the fabric perfectly dry. 

“Thanks.” The demon put his arms around his shoulders and sighed, still gazing up. “It’s one of the brightest stars visible from earth,” he said with obvious pride. 

“Oh. I only get _one_ of the brightest stars?” he teased. 

Crowley snorted. “I didn’t get to build _all_ of them, angel,” he said dryly. “It’s the best and brightest one that I’ve made. Is that good enough for you?” 

“It's far too good for me. Thank you.” 

“Shut up. It’s perfect for you. My constellation through the dark.” He brushed his lips over his cheek, then neck, and nipped lightly at the skin. 

“Ridiculous thing.” On impulse, Aziraphale grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him again, this time shoving his tongue into his mouth. Crowley made a surprised and pleased sound, and responded with such enthusiasm that he nearly knocked him off the bench. A pleasant sort of grappling ensued, and by the time they finally broke apart they were both panting. Aziraphale had both hands clutched to Crowley’s face and the demon gripped his waist with equal fervour. 

“I love my star,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “Thank you.” He shifted to lean against him again, arms around his shoulders.

“It’s a lot nicer up close.” Crowley sounded wistful now. 

There was a pause, and Aziraphale wet his lips. “Do you miss it?” he asked quietly. He had never dared to ask before; they had never talked about it. Not once. Despite all their openness over the years, their complete trust in one another now, there always had seemed to be an unspoken agreement to not discuss Crowley’s Fall. They could both sense the impossible, hopeless pain in the subject.

Crowley was quiet for a long, long time, and he thought he wouldn’t respond at all. They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the crickets sing and looking up at the peaceful sky, holding each other. 

At long last Crowley stirred beside him and took a deep breath. “I think so,” he sighed, very quietly, and there was a pool of sorrow a mile deep beneath those three words. “I don’t remember very much. Just...flashes.” He looked at him, golden eyes in shadow. “A lot of your memory gets- burned out, when you Fall. Lake of fire, and all that.” He swallowed convulsively and cleared his throat. “I don’t remember how to build stars, or what I called them then. But I remember how they looked when they were finished. I remember that I loved it.” He looked up at the sky again, expression unreadable. 

Aziraphale’s heart ached for him. “Do you remember your old name?” he asked carefully, afraid he might be venturing into more dangerous territory. 

“Nah," he replied easily. He looked down at him, and the sad expression vanished as he grinned. “But I actually don’t mind that. I like the one I have.” 

“So do I, Anthony dear.” He smiled back, relieved. “Your name is perfect.” He nuzzled at his neck for a second, then paused. “What _does_ the J stand for, incidentally? You’ve never actually told me.” 

“Ah.” Crowley winced. “Well...it literally just means Jay. J-a-y.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, grinning hugely and trying not to laugh. “You gave yourself the middle name ‘Jay’? Were you drunk?”

“I thought it was funny at the time,” Crowley muttered. 

That was definitely a yes. Aziraphale did laugh now, and hugged him tighter. “That’s just...wonderful. Wonderful and ridiculous. I love it.” 

“Really?”

”I love everything about you. Never doubt that.” 

They just sat there in the quiet dark, Aziraphale struggling to find a way to say everything he was feeling. There was so much that it nearly choked him. It would take a week to say it all. He finally only sighed, and laid his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry you lost your stars, my love. It isn’t right.” 

“Don’t be.” Crowley reached up to take his hand, and spent a moment examining his fingers. He twisted the silver serpent ring around a few times, then planted a light kiss on it. “Turns out I was just looking for a brighter one.” 

Aziraphale shoved gently at him, because the alternative was to start crying. For all that he was the reader of the pair, Crowley had a way with words that he could never seem to match. 

* * *

  
  
Illustration by [pinkpiggy93 (IG)](https://instagram.com/pinkpiggy93?igshid=taiuiafemhd4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fun fact: The star Vega's name comes from the Arabic word "waqi," which means "falling". 💫_


	6. Balancing Act

* * *

“I’ve changed my mind. This was a bad idea,” said Aziraphale. 

“Uh huh. Explain something for me, angel. You’ve been alive since earth began. You’ve lived on every continent, can do 'magic tricks'" -Crowley made quotation marks in the air with his fingers- "and learned conversational Japanese just so you can speak to sushi chefs...”

“Yes, all true.”

“So how is it, in all this time, you have _never_ learned to ride a bicycle?”

It was a beautiful June day at the local park; the air was slightly cool but not cold, and the sun shone brightly through an only moderately cloudy blue sky. Around the corner, behind a clutch of trees was a large play space full of children and families taking advantage of the nice weather, but currently their little back area was completely deserted. They were on a clear, unmarked stretch of asphalt, neighbored by an equally clear stretch of close-cropped grass.

Aziraphale was sitting very straight and tall on the seat of a bright red, brand new, slightly old-fashioned-style bicycle, hands clenched nervously on the handlebars. He looked perfectly out of place, perfectly adorable, and definitely like he was having second thoughts about this particular activity.

Crowley stood next to him, hands on his hips and eyeing him skeptically through his sunglasses. He had meticulously cleared the ground around them of any rocks, sticks or other potential hazards just a few minutes before. The last thing he needed was for the angel to fall over and crack his head open on a rock, or something stupid like that. 

Ever since their run-in with Hastur and company about a week ago, Aziraphale had been insistent that they go out and try new things. To Crowley's mild alarm, the close shave with death had apparently unearthed a new adventurous streak in him, and he seemed determined to cram in as many human experiences as possible. Most recently there had been a distillery tour (where they had got absolutely sloshed), hiking (they had both ended up gasping for air and giving up after fifteen minutes), and horseback riding (wherein they both agreed that it was _just_ as unpleasant as they remembered). Normally Crowley would have been thrilled at the uptick in activity, but for once he wouldn’t have minded holing up and just hiding away for a bit. He was still riding the high of almost overpowering relief ever since that awful day, and was still struggling with the mad urge to roll his husband up in a blanket and lock him in the house for safekeeping.

In this particular instance, just that morning the angel had seen an advertisement about cycling the scenic paths of the area, and had immediately loved the idea. Or, maybe more accurately, he had loved the _idea_ of the idea, as it had brought to light one minor problem...

“Well, darling, there are lots of things that I haven’t learned how to do yet,” Aziraphale replied, with exaggerated patience. Oh, he _was_ tense, wasn’t he? “I haven’t taken up the flute or pottery-making, either.”

“Yeahhhh, but a bicycle? They were all the rage in the late nineteenth century, how did you manage that?”

“Velocipedes always struck me as a very inefficient and undignified way of getting about,” the angel said primly. “Not to mention unsafe! Did you _see_ the early models? Practically death traps!” 

“Mm,” Crowley said noncommittally. The early models had been quite fun. No brakes or pedals, minimal control, barely any tires to speak of, and all around fantastically chaotic. He had been instrumental in their creation, actually, and it had been more successful than he could have possibly imagined. He’d been in Germany on a very dull assignment (tempting a priest, so _pedestrian_ ), and in his idle time he’d decided to have some fun. One night he'd gone out and got staggeringly drunk, and while deep in his cups had sketched out the basic schematics of the craziest vehicle he could possibly imagine, as a kind of dare to himself. He'd then ranted on about the virtues of his “invention” and slipped the scribbled pages to an interested nobleman who was drinking in the same pub. He'd swaggered off with a hearty snicker and completely forgot about his little prank until about a year later, when he saw them being offered for sale. Humans just never ceased to amaze him. At most, he’d thought it might be good for a chuckle at the expense of whatever poor idiot tried to build one. 

Convincing the British aristocracy that the ridiculous things were in fact a status symbol- now _that_ had been a particular stroke of genius, in his opinion. A few dropped hints in the right well-connected ears was all it had taken. Rich humans were so impossibly gullible; all you had to do was make something expensive and hard to attain, no matter how bizarre, and they fell all over themselves to get their manicured little hands on it. Nothing was more predictable than a rich person trying to show off.

The ensuing mayhem was his proudest accomplishment of the era. Egging on the impeccably dressed dandies to ride downhill at high speeds had been one of his favourite pastimes. They had looked like such spectacular arses, with their cravats flapping in the wind and coattails streaming out behind them like sails as they tried to scrabble to a halt. Crowley had laughed himself sick. Before long the increasingly popular contraptions were declared a public menace and banned from common areas, due to their propensity for rearranging both pedestrians belongings and their riders’ internal organs. He'd then watched with astonishment as they spread across the globe like a two-wheeled plague, inciting everything from traffic accidents to lower fertility rates to moral panic over the years. It had even caught the attention of Management. He'd earned one hell of a commendation for that one. 

This didn’t seem like a great time to bring any of that up, though.

“So you never even _tried_ one?” Crowley pressed. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Alright, I tried it once, if you must know!” he replied tartly. “It did not go well. I’ve avoided the blasted things ever since.”

Crowley stared at him, mouth twitching. Oh no. This was _definitely_ not a good time to bring any of that up. “Define ‘did not go well.’”

“I will not.” 

“Oh come _on_ , angel, please?” He was grinning now. “Please please please please tell me the story.” 

“No!” 

He pressed up close to him and rested his chin on his shoulder, glasses poking his cheek. He smelled like cologne and spicy aftershave. “I’m not letting this one go. You know how persistent I can be. Come on. I’ll take you to lunch after. Anywhere you want,” he wheedled. He would have anyway, but no sense giving up a good bargaining chip.

Aziraphale stared straight ahead, hands on the bars, face pinched in that little moue that said he was tempted, and irritated about it. God, he was cute when he was irritated. He should strive to irritate him more often. Sensing weakness, Crowley went in for the kill. 

“We can go get ice cream, too. At that posh little gelato place down south that you always want to go to but is too far away...” He trailed off, and just let the bait sit there. 

“It isn’t too far away, you’re just lazy,” Aziraphale finally muttered. “Oh, alright.” He sighed and lifted his chin.

“In summer 1819, I was invited to a house party. The master of the house had just purchased a new velocipede, and everyone was encouraged to have a go. I did, and I ended up in the lily pond, alright?” His cheeks had turned bright red by the time he finished speaking.

Crowley absorbed this for a moment in silence. “You rode the bike into the water?” he asked at last. 

“Not on purpose,” the angel said testily. 

“In formal clothes?” 

“ _Yes_.” 

Crowley was quiet for another moment, staring into space, envisioning. “...Was it a large lily pond?” 

“Yes. What could that _possibly_ matter?” 

“I’m just trying to build an accurate mental picture here.” 

Aziraphale turned to look at him, blue eyes wide with distress. “Crowley, my clothes were ruined, and I had to spend the rest of the evening soaked in front of everyone. I couldn’t even miracle myself dry!” The tone of utter, dramatic anguish in his voice was nearly enough to make him burst out laughing. 

With a great effort he mastered himself and kept his voice solemn. “That does sound terrible.” 

“Oh, shut up. Let’s just forget this whole thing and go to lunch.” He started to dismount, face pinched. “This was a silly idea.”

 _Shit._ “No, no, wait, I’m sorry.” He put his arms around him, holding him in place, and pressed his lips to his cheek. “I’m sorry, angel. That does sound very embarrassing.” He tucked the mental image, and his smile, far away for examining later at his leisure. 

“It was mortifying,” Aziraphale grumbled. “The other guests were _less_ than gracious.” He put a hand on his arm, and Crowley felt a pang of genuine sympathy, followed by a surge of outrage. 

“They were cruel to you?” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well...not overtly. You remember how the aristocracy was at the time. But they made themselves perfectly clear.” 

Crowley stood there with arms around his shoulders, and now he was envisioning all the things he would like to do to people more than a century dead. It was really too bad that he no longer had connections downstairs, it would have been fun to pay them a visit. He gave himself a shake and shoved aside an unwelcome stab of guilt. 

“Hey.” He stroked the blond hair, and spoke in a gentler tone. Aziraphale’s prickliness made a lot more sense now. His oh-so-proper angel could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d been truly humiliated in his life, so the experience was bound to stick. “The bicycle has improved a lot since then. It has pedals now, for starters. And proper brakes.” _Trust humans to ruin the fun._

“I suppose that’s true.” Aziraphale sighed. 

“And there are no lily ponds here. Let’s see if we can make a new start of it, hmm?” He let go of him and gestured to the long, even stretch of grass in front of them. “Let’s try it on the grass, first. I promise it really is fun once you get the hang of it.”

“Very well.” He let out another resigned sigh. “What do I do first?” 

“Well, for starters, for the love of all that is unholy stop calling it a velocipede. Do you have any idea how creepy you sound to humans when you do that? It’s been called a bicycle for more than a hundred years now. Pull your head into the twentieth century, at least.” 

“Oh, alright.” He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “The design still leaves a lot to be desired,” he grumbled. “What madman would create such a tiny seat that goes directly between your legs? It’s terribly uncomfortable. Not to mention impractical.” 

Crowley had been particularly proud of that feature. Making human men ride around essentially sitting on their balls had struck him as incredibly funny.

“Well, if you’re worried, I can check later to make sure that everything is- _ow!_ ” Aziraphale had smacked him on the arm, probably with a tad more force than he intended. Crowley snickered. “Okay. So we’ll start the way the old bicycles did, both feet on the ground, just scooting.” 

The angel harrumphed, and started waddling along on his tiptoes, pushing the bike as he went. “This is humiliating,” he muttered. “Human children do this without problems all the time. Children who can barely _walk_.” 

Crowley kept pace beside him, one hand on the nearest bar. “You’re doing fine. Just get used to the feeling of moving. You don’t have to go fast, at first. Just go nice and slow until it feels comfortable.” 

Aziraphale shot him a sidelong glance, lips pursed in the determinedly-not-smiling way he had. “You _are_ still talking about the veloc- the bicycle, aren’t you?” 

“I’m _shocked_ that you would think I was talking about anything else. Focus, now.” He suppressed a mad grin and pointed about ten yards ahead, to where the road ended in another cluster of trees. “Once you get some momentum going, try taking your feet off the ground for a moment, and just coast. See if you can get to the end doing that." 

Aziraphale halted. “This absolutely infernal contraption,” he burst out, apparently unable to hold it in. “What is the _point_ of a method of transportation that you have to power yourself? And that tips over the _second_ you pause for even an instant! Or hit even the smallest bump!” 

Fair point. He _had_ thought it was a brilliantly stupid feature. Even if modern tyres and things had mitigated it somewhat.

“How big was the hill?” Crowley asked, unable to help himself. 

Aziraphale fixed him with a gimlet eye. “I’m not saying another word about it,” he replied loftily. “Suffice to say I preferred the horse and carriage.” He faced forward again, nose in the air, and continued his determined shuffle across the grass. “Or walking.”

“Why are we doing this then? It was your idea.” 

The wind seemed to go out of his sails a bit, and he slowed. “It just…looks like such fun. I thought it would be easier this time.”

Crowley folded his arms. “Well, you’re going to need to go faster if you’re going to get anywhere. You’ve got to actually roll along.” 

“Alright, alright.” He picked up his pace, just a little. 

“I’ve seen turtles go faster than that. Come on, angel, be bold! Put some speed into it!” 

“I’m trying! This isn’t as easy as it looks.” It didn’t look easy at all, not the way he was doing it. He had a death grip on the handlebars, knuckles showing white on clenched fingers, and couldn’t seem to stop staring at the ground. Part of the problem was that he was trying to maintain his ramrod-straight, rigid posture all the while, which was affecting his balance. With his lips pressed tightly together and blond hair ruffling in the summer breeze, he looked more like a particularly affronted parrot perched on a bicycle than a man trying to ride one. 

“Well, it will get easier with practice,” Crowley assured him. 

“Yes, of course.”

The more you do it, the smoother and better it will be,” he deadpanned. 

“Oh, Good Lord.” 

“I promise you will end up enjoying the ride.” Crowley was really warming to his subject now, grinning an idiot grin. “With practice you’ll be able to go for hours without getting off!”

“Don’t make me smite you.” Aziraphale was red-faced from more than exertion now. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scowl, and the pressure of holding it in was threatening to burst. He kept glancing furtively around to see if anyone else was watching, but they were still in a completely deserted area of the park. No one else wanted to be on this random little stretch of back road on a nice day like this - no one except an ancient and powerful, fussily-dressed being who was suddenly feeling his oats. Crowley sighed, and thought wistfully of the drinks they could be consuming instead. Who would have thought that of all his demonic activities, _this_ was the one that would come back to bite him after two hundred years! There really should be an expiration date on that sort of thing. 

At any rate, they had reached the end of the stretch and weren’t making any progress. “Here, let’s try something else,” Crowley said, rubbing his chin. “Hmm. What if you put your feet on the pedals and I pull you along from the front?” 

The angel stared at him for a moment, squinting, clearly trying to find the innuendo before deciding that he meant it. “Alright then.”

Thirty minutes later, however, they were exactly where they had started. Crowley had tried pulling from the front, pushing from the back, and running like a gazelle alongside him trying to hold him upright, all while thanking _Wh_ _oever_ that there was no one around to witness this. They must look like a drunken two-man circus act, one that was going very badly. He was red-faced now himself, and sweating, and completely out of ideas. Despite all their efforts and every possible suggestive joke Crowley managed to fit in, they were no further along. Aziraphale simply refused to keep his feet off the ground long enough to get any momentum going, and the one time he finally did, he panicked and fell over the second Crowley let go of the bars. Down he went onto the grass with an undignified splat.

Crowley hurried over and pulled him to his feet, trying not to look as worried as he felt. The angel was completely unharmed, but blushing furiously as he brushed himself off- he had unfortunately chosen to fall in a squelchy wet patch on the grass, probably left over from the morning sprinklers.

“Well,” he said, panting and adjusting his shirtsleeves. “I think that’s _quite_ enough for one day.” He examined his muddy elbow and grimaced, then looked up at him imploringly. 

Crowley reached over and ran a hand up his arm and across his shoulder, leaving the fabric clean and dry. He didn’t technically need to touch him to do it, but then Aziraphale could have easily miracled it himself rather than pouting at him like that. They both enjoyed their little fictions. “I think we made a great start, though,” he said unconvincingly. He kept his hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly with his thumb. “Try again later?” He was honestly impressed that Aziraphale had made it this far; he would have expected him to give up a while ago, but the angel had a mulish streak in him a mile wide. 

“Alright.” He looked rather downcast. “Come on, let’s go get that lunch. And I’m holding you to the ice cream.”

”A deal’s a deal,” Crowley said soberly. He righted the overturned bike and wheeled it down the road towards the car park, Aziraphale keeping step beside him. He was still picking bits of grass off his clothing with meticulous fingers.

“Have you heard that human saying, ‘as easy as riding a bike?’ I’ve decided it’s complete nonsense. It’s not easy at all! And let me _tell_ you...” The angel’s indignant fussing continued all the way through the sunlit park, past the crowds of shrieking children (some of whom whizzed past effortlessly on bicycles) right up until they reached the Bentley. Crowley simply listened and made determinedly neutral noises while he carefully loaded the red bike onto the car's bike rack- the one that had simply popped into existence that morning. If anyone other than Aziraphale had messed with his precious Bentley like that he would have put spiders in their trousers, but…it was Aziraphale.

They got into the car, and Aziraphale finally ran out of complaints, or air, or both. After a silent moment he blew out a frustrated breath and took his hand. “I’m sorry I was snappish with you earlier, darling.” He looked over at him, mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “None of this is your fault.” 

“Ah.” Crowley twitched. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Well, I know you were just trying to help.”

“Uh huh.” Guilt was churning in his stomach now. “Yeah, I was. You’ll get the hang of it.” 

“It's just so embarrassing! Humans seem to have no trouble with it at all, and I feel foolish. I admit, I was hoping to be able to go cycling right away.” Aziraphale sighed. “Silly of me, really. Thank you for trying so hard.” He leaned over and kissed him, letting his soft hand rest on his cheek. He never missed the opportunity to touch him: stroking his hair, brushing fingertips down his face, pulling him in for a quick hug as he passed. Each and every time Crowley had to resist the urge to stop what he was doing and just lean into that touch with his eyes closed. Sometimes, like now, he didn’t bother resisting. 

By the time he'd finished kissing him Crowley had mostly forgotten where they were. He had to take a moment and blink and look around to reorient himself.

“Well,” he managed to croak out, “it’s only day one.” He kissed Aziraphale’s hand and gave it what he hoped was an encouraging squeeze. “Worst case, even if you don’t figure it out, it’s not that bad. There are loads of other fun things we can do.” _Less hazardous things, to start with._

“Oh, I know that, I just sort of...well." Aziraphale looked down at their entwined fingers, face pensive. "I guess all the business with- with the Apocalypse, and then with Hastur, it's made me realise how much we still have never done, or done together. How many things I haven’t ever gone back and finished. It all seems a bit more...final, than it ever did before.” 

“I mean…it’s a little like being human now, isn’t it?” he continued quietly, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. “We have one chance, one body, and if we die…that’s it for us, in every way that matters. We’d never even see each other again. It’s not just discorporation anymore.” 

As if that thought hadn’t been constantly, painfully on Crowley’s mind for the past week. He cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight. “Yeah.” He put an arm around his shoulders and kissed the side of his head, keeping his lips there for far longer than usual so Aziraphale couldn’t see his face. It was quiet in the car for a minute or two before he roused himself and said, “I guess it's lucky, then, that I've got you to protect me, right?"

That made the angel chuckle, as he'd intended. "Very true. I guess I’m just impatient. I don’t want to risk missing out on anything with you, ever again.” 

“Then we won’t.” Crowley planted a final, decisive kiss on his forehead and turned the car key in the ignition. "Starting with lunch. That _is_ something we can do right away. _Carpe panem._ " 

* * *

  
Aziraphale ended up choosing Italian food, and between that and the gelato they had eaten far too much. Once they got back to the house they both agreed that some relaxation was in order.

A large parcel had arrived for Aziraphale, a shipment of rare books that he had been looking forward to for a while, so Crowley plopped down onto the sofa with a groan and put his feet up on the coffee table. He had half a mind to take a nap. In the meantime he was very content to sit back and watch his husband excitedly tear into the box like a child at Christmas, exclaiming over each identical dusty addition as he produced it. Crowley did his best not to grin too hard, but it was difficult. If there was one thing in the entire world guaranteed to cheer Aziraphale up more than food, it was books, and it was good to see him looking so happy again. When Aziraphale was discouraged the entire world felt just a bit darker. Crowley only wished he could have been more helpful with the damn bicycle itself; he didn’t like that he was responsible (even tangentially) for a painful memory. Of all the ridiculous regrets to have...though if he was honest with himself, he was slightly relieved that it hadn't panned out. It was one less thing to worry about for his safety.

He sighed and shifted his gaze to the crystal vase of flowers on the coffee table, next to his crossed feet. It held an arrangement of tall purple flowers- some of the strange new ones from the garden room, the flowers that had burst into being a week ago when they got...er...carried away in there. Crowley reached out and plucked one from the bunch, fiddling idly with it and letting his mind wander as he listened to Aziraphale ramble on about first editions and remainder marks.

He had ended up clipping back a lot of the rampant growth in the garden room for practicality’s sake, but it seemed to have taken on a mind of its own. Ever since that day, most of the plants had started sprouting flowers, lots and lots of flowers, especially the plants that had absolutely no business doing so. Some of the blooms were astonishingly beautiful and exotic-looking, like the one he was holding. The royal purple petals were shot through with splotches of watercolour crimson and streaks of gold, and gave off a sweet, wild scent unlike anything he had ever smelled. 

Crowley still didn’t have the faintest idea of how any of that had happened. Aziraphale swore it hadn’t been him, but he didn’t see how it could be anything else. Demonic power couldn’t create things like that. Sure, he could intimidate the plants into excelling at what they did naturally, but making new life, spontaneously? No. Most likely the angel had simply got carried away. He saw so much beauty in the world, and generated so much of his own, that it was no wonder at all that it spilled back out into the world around him. 

He rolled the flower stem between his fingers, contemplating. Aziraphale deserved all the beauty that the world could give him. 

Crowley stood up suddenly, interrupting a monologue about torn bindings. “Actually, I have an errand to run,” he announced. “I’ll be back in about an hour, at most.” He stuck the flower back in the vase, walked over to the kitchen counter and grabbed his glasses and keys. 

Aziraphale looked up from his box in surprise, clutching a half-unwrapped book. “But- we just got in. Where on earth are you going?” 

“I'll tell you when I get back, I promise. Don't go anywhere?” 

The angel gestured to his tartan armchair, where Menace was splayed out and audibly snoring. Did that cat do _anything_ else? "I was just planning to do some reading, after this..." 

“Perfect. Do that." He pointed to the motionless animal. "Be like _him_. I’ll be back soon.” 

"Alright." Aziraphale looked baffled, but set down his book and came over to place a kiss by his ear, right on top of his sigil tattoo. There was always a little prickle when he did that, almost like a faint electric shock, but if the angel felt anything he had never mentioned it. Crowley never said a word, either, for fear that he would stop kissing him there. "Thank you for lunch, my dear. And for the cycling lessons."

"Yuh huh." Damn that stupid twinge of guilt. _He_ wasn't the one who had suggested trying to ride near a lily pond. "Anytime." 

* * *

About an hour later Crowley swept back into the house, feeling extremely pleased with himself. To his nearly painful relief, Aziraphale was still exactly where he had promised he would be- sitting in his armchair, sipping caramel liquid from a tumbler and stroking a still-sleeping Menace on his lap. He smiled and looked up at him expectantly as he came in. "Hello, love. Can I pour you a drink?" 

Crowley glanced at the sleeping cat, and shook his head. "It's okay, I'll get it." He went to the counter and examined the open bottle sitting there. "Breaking out the fancy scotch, I see." He poured himself a finger of the stuff and downed it all in one swift gulp. He intended it to look smooth and cavalier, but he downed it a bit too fast and ended up coughing and wheezing as some of it went down the wrong tube. He pounded on his chest and took a few deep breaths, then poured himself another small measure. 

Aziraphale delicately swirled the liquid in his own glass and took a very pointed sip. "Heathen. So. What _were_ you up to?" 

Crowley sipped his drink with eyes closed, slower this time, savouring the mingled tastes of malt and spices. He had spent most of the drive convincing himself that Aziraphale wouldn’t vanish while he was gone, and the strong liquor was a nice balm on those nerves. He drained it again and set his glass back down on the counter with a clink. "I was cementing our plans for tomorrow, weather permitting. We’re going bike riding, like you wanted.” 

Aziraphale looked at him, frowning in puzzlement. “Sweetheart, I appreciate the optimism, but you saw me today. There’s no way I can ride one of those things, at least not yet.” 

“Well, as a matter of fact, angel, I did think of that,” he said smugly. “Come with me." He jerked his head towards the back door and waited. Once Aziraphale relocated Menace and stood, he took his hand and led him outside to the back garden.

"Ta da." He stepped aside, revealing what he had purchased. 

It was a brand new bicycle, gleaming dark blue with silver handlebars. It was identical to a normal bicycle in size and shape and every way- except that the back half had two wheels instead of one, spaced about two feet apart. 

“What on earth is this?” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

"The solution to your problem, for now at least.” Crowley walked over to it and folded his arms. “Three wheels means no risk of falling over. And look-” He gestured with his chin to the metal basket attached to the frame between the wheels. “There's even a place for you to pack picnic stuff, if you like.”

Aziraphale had come over as well and was examining it in rising excitement. “I didn’t know that such a thing existed! I thought they only made these for children.”

So had Crowley, honestly. It had popped up in an ad when he searched “How to teach an adult to ride a bicycle”, and his first reaction had been to laugh. He kept all laughter far from his face now, though, and merely shrugged. 

“Well, this way you don’t have to wait. You can still enjoy riding while you learn. We can always get you a regular one later if you insist on being a daredevi-”

His words were choked off as Aziraphale threw his arms around his neck, squeezing him so tightly that he could only make a wheezing sound. “Thank you.” He kissed him exuberantly on the mouth and let go of him, beaming. “Oh, this will be such fun! Tomorrow is supposed to have lovely weather, so the timing couldn't be better.”

“Ah, good,” Crowley said faintly. He was still recovering from the kiss. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“I love it! It’s such a lovely colour, too." 

"Yup." The shop had only had a bright pink one in stock, but a quick demonic miracle had taken care of _that_. 

"And a picnic is a fantastic idea! I'll put some things together for tomorrow, I think I can place an order at that little cafe down the way, they have a cake that would be _perfect_ for..." 

Crowley watched with a grin as Aziraphale started animatedly making plans, already plotting out exactly what they would eat the next day with the gravitas of a general discussing battle strategy. His enthusiasm was contagious, as always, and the way he had immediately lit up made the whole hassle more than worth it. As far as he was concerned it was a win-win, because now he didn't have to worry about the angel accidentally killing himself while stubbornly trying to keep up. After their little failed experiment today it had seemed like a distinct possibility. 

"...and this design is, frankly, _much_ more sensible than the other one." Aziraphale was still chattering on a couple minutes later as they headed back into the house, a bounce in his step and an arm around his waist. "I truly don’t understand why they weren’t made like this right from the start, it would have saved so much trouble." He looked up at Crowley, indignation written all over his face. "What utter madman would make a vehicle with two wheels when you could have three?" 

* * *


	7. The Raincheck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so sorry about the ridiculous gap in updating! Quarantine distraction has been insane and for weeks all my brain would allow me to work on was PWPs for the other account. But this is officially BACK on track, and we are approaching the final chapters. Thank you so much to everyone for your patience! ❤️

* * *

It was the most perfect day for a picnic.

After more than fifty long years it was finally going to happen. Aziraphale had been worried that some quirk of the weather might derail their plans, but those fears had proven to be groundless. He gazed with satisfaction out the library window, leaning on the sill and taking in the bright sunshine and azure skies, the birds wheeling high overhead. One couldn't ask for a prettier country morning.

Excitement fizzed under his skin, buoying him and giving him even more energy than he usually had at this early hour. He and Crowley had gone on many wonderful outings together, had tried many fun new actvities, but this felt different somehow. This was more than a mere picnic - it was the fulfillment of a promise he had made all those decades ago, a promise that he was finally about to keep. First on the schedule was velocip- oh, alright - _bicycle_ riding, for his first time ever, which he was looking forward to but slightly apprehensive about, and then they would get to enjoy the most excellent lunch he had arranged. His stomach growled just thinking about it.

He turned away from the window with a contented sigh and returned his attention to the book in his hand - the last of the books that had arrived the previous day. He carefully set the ancient Israeli tome of (admittedly dubious) prophecy in the specially-sealed, glass-doored alcove reserved for fragile texts, then stood back to admire his handiwork. Perfect. He used his sleeve to buff at an imaginary smudge on the glass and cast a critical eye over the other shelves, checking for wayward dust. Everything about his library was perfect, and designed to his _precise_ specifications. It didn't have quite the grand sweeping majesty of his old bookshop, perhaps, but it was uniquely, entirely his own space, and he loved it with a fiercely protective passion. No one came in and removed things without putting them back; there were no children with sticky fingers and little grasping hands yanking books off the shelves, no customers sneezing on the open pages while he looked on in barely-concealed horror. His darling Crowley would never dare to dog-ear a page in his presence, or leave a book carelessly facedown with it's spine cruelly bent. 

Speaking of Crowley, he was certainly still abed. That was par for the course with him, but ever since their misadventure with the other demons he had been even lazier than usual. He'd seemed almost reluctant to leave the house, though he could hardly be blamed for that, the poor thing. 

Aziraphale sighed. It appeared habits were catching, because it was his first morning rising before ten in quite a while. He had never slept at all until less than a year ago, yet now he found himself laying about all the time, like some kind of ethereal...wastrel! But not today. _This_ morning, this fine summer morning, he had resolved to be productive. The trouble was that his husband made him not _want_ to be. Whenever he woke up together with Crowley he always somehow got roped into whiling half the day away, so today he had planned ahead, and snuck out of bed early. At dawn’s first weak light he had carefully pried Crowley’s hand off his chest, eased away from his warm (and quite unclothed) body and inched his way out from under the covers, stealthy as an eel. As he crept away from the bed he’d spared a backwards glance at his sleeping husband, and that had almost been his undoing. Crowley was curled into a ball, snug and safe under the blankets, and looked very inviting...and very abandoned.

That was nonsense, of course.

He had dressed with stubborn determination, wrapping himself in his most neatly-pressed, everyday clothing like armour. Throttling regret with every brisk movement and trying not to think about how comfortable Crowley’s lanky arms had been around him, how his even breathing had warmed the back of his neck. How his hips had felt tucked against his own. He fumbled his tie and had to start over, lips pressed tightly together. Blast it, he couldn’t spend _every_ day like a slugabed. At some point a person simply had to get things done.

It was now mid-morning, and he had indeed got many things done. He had already completed all the dusting, packed their lunch, walked down the road to pick up the little cake he had ordered for their picnic, re-organized an entire shelf to a more pleasing aesthetic, and now finished unpacking the new books. He bustled through the various upstairs rooms as quietly as he could, tidying and straightening little things here and there, putting the finishing touches on chores long neglected. Humming contentedly to himself and very successfully _not_ thinking about anything but those chores.

Best of all, he thought, as he made his way down the hall towards the stairs, this early start gave him the opportunity to get the drop on Crowley for once. He would make _him_ tea and breakfast today, and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought put an extra bounce in his step, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Crowley always managed to show him up, no matter how hard he tried to do things for him, but for once he had dodged that trap. An iron fortress against temptation, he was.

As he passed the bedroom his step faltered, and he stopped in his tracks, staring. Through the open door he could see Crowley was sprawled out on his stomach, legs splayed, still fast asleep and snoring audibly. At some point the blue tartan-patterned blanket had slid all the way down to his thighs, and- Good Lord. The lean, naked curves of his body were stretched nearly the entire length of the bed. He looked…absolutely gorgeous.

Aziraphale noticed with a tickle of amusement that Menace had taken his old place in the bed, snuggled up purring against Crowley’s bare side and looking very smug. The skinny little cat had figured out very quickly that the demon’s body ran hot, and never wasted an opportunity to take advantage of that fact when he was (frequently) unconscious. He could hardly blame him; it did look comfortable. In fact, it looked so _very_ comfortable that he had to stifle a surge of completely irrational envy.

 _Steady on, now. Don’t be ridiculous._ He clasped his hands behind his back and stood there in the doorway for a moment, trying to look anywhere else, pursing his lips in irritation and tapping his foot. His eyes kept being drawn back to the prone figure on the bed, very much against his will.

Maybe he would go over for just one second and take a better look. That surely couldn’t derail anything. He would give him a quick kiss and then carry on. Yes.

He walked silently over to the bed, stepping carefully on the balls of stockinged feet and skirting around the one loose floorboard that always creaked like a foghorn. He sank slowly down on the edge of the mattress, taking extra care not to jostle Crowley even though it was probably unnecessary. His demon slept like the dead- unless he was having a nightmare. They had grown less frequent as the months went by, but they still occurred about every ten days or so, so he was always cautious. During those horrible dreams the slightest touch could send him jolting awake with a terrified gasp, but it didn’t look like that was the case right now. Aziraphale smiled as he ran an appreciative eye over his husband. His sleeping face was pressed against the pillow, mien peaceful and relaxed, with smooth brow and eyes quiet beneath their lids. It was such a lovely look on him, one that he never tired of seeing after all the pain he had recently endured. He wanted to kiss those closed eyes.

Aziraphale caught himself automatically reaching out to stroke the russet hair, drawn toward him like a magnet, and stopped. He clenched his fingers into a fist and stuck his hand firmly back in his lap, and covered it for good measure. Good Heavens, he was too beautiful. It simply shouldn’t be allowed. Part of those demonic wiles, no doubt. Lucky for him, he wasn’t one to easily succumb to such tricks, and certainly not one to lose his head simply because he was confronted by a naked body. A very lovely, naked body.

His neatly folded fingers twitched.

The urge to touch him grew like a pressure in his chest until, try as he might, looking just wasn’t enough anymore. Crowley seemed very deeply asleep, so… he reached out and very gently laid a hand on his upper back. Just for a second. He let his palm stroke down over the warm skin, exhaling slowly as he made his way down over the contours of his shoulder muscles, the familiar dimples of his lower back. Oh, he knew those dimples very well indeed. Aziraphale smiled and stroked him again, and the soft lips turned up just a little, almost as if he could feel him smiling too.

Menace eyed him skeptically during all this from his spot on the bed, probably wondering why in heavens name he was petting the human instead of him. That made two of them, Aziraphale thought as his hand drifted lower. He really should stop, if he didn’t want him to-

Crowley suddenly stirred. The angel froze, hand squarely on his bum, as the demon lifted his head and looked blearily up at him. His golden eyes were heavy with sleep, and he had a crease pressed into his cheek from the pillow.

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiled guiltily, caught. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Hey.” Crowley rolled over, nearly squashing the startled cat, who yowled in protest and shot him a dirty look before slinking reluctantly off the bed. “G’Morning.” He stretched out on his back, long and leisurely, providing a new and very improved view. Aziraphale felt his heart lurch. He couldn’t remember what else he had been going to say. _Get ahold of yourself, Principality. Iron fortress._

Crowley yawned and tucked both arms behind his head, lying there shamelessly exposed, smirking lazily up at him through half-closed lids. No one else could lounge quite as well as he did; he’d practically elevated it to an art form. He’d had plenty of time to practice, after all. “Like what you see, angel?”

Did he ever. He had little to compare it to, but to his eyes Crowley’s body was the epitome of perfect. “I always like what I see when I look at you.” He trailed his fingers slowly back up his front and leaned down to kiss the little black snake tattoo by his ear. There was the usual faint _zap_ of pain as his lips brushed it, like touching metal after scuffing your feet on wool carpet, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want Crowley to fret and stop him from kissing there. He licked his tingling lips, smiling, and went to kiss him again.

Crowley grinned, copper-bright, and in one swift motion reached up and yanked him down by the front of his shirt. Aziraphale had been expecting that, so his shocked yelp was purely for show. “You wily serpen-” the halfhearted protest was cut off by Crowley’s mouth, and a second later the demon pulled him fully into his arms atop him. He held him fast and kissed him slowly, tongue questing between his lips and lingering there. He had a very clever tongue. He tasted good.

 _Demonic wiles_ , Aziraphale thought desperately. _Resist the demonic wiles._ He broke off the kiss and rubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble scrape under his fingers. “You need a shave before we go out today,” he said reproachfully, unable to suppress a smile. “You’re all ragged.” He liked it. It was part and parcel of his charm, all sharp angles and swagger and rough against the world.

“Mmhm.” Crowley still had his eyes closed as he kissed him again. “Come back to bed with me,” he murmured. “Just for a bit. We’ve got plenty of time before our picnic.” Fever-warm fingers pulled the back of his shirt up a little, eagerly untucking it and sliding one hand up underneath. That burning palm lay flat against the comparatively chilled skin of his lower back, pressing possessive-close. Aziraphale shivered. Oh. Oh no. It was beginning, he could feel it. Sucking all his motivation away like water down a drain. “I’ll bet you’ve been up for hours already. Surely there's nothing pressing that you still need to do. What was it, arranging your books by colour this time?"

Aziraphale ignored the sarcasm and shifted in place, making to get up. The arms tightened around him in response, and his wits softened proportionately. He gave his head a little shake to clear it. “No, no no no, _no,_ it’s already nine-thirty, darling.” He tried to push himself up, but Crowley only wrapped his long legs around him as well, trapping him in place and clinging like an octopus. A particularly gangly, very naked octopus. His brain seemed determined to keep pointing out the naked part.

“Yeah, my point exactly. And?” Crowley’s smirking face was touching his, nose to nose.

"And...” He closed his eyes so as not to look at him, but that only brought into focus how he _felt_ wrapped up in him...and lying between his legs. He opened his eyes and clutched desperately at his resolve. He somehow found himself clutching at Crowley instead. “I’ve- I’ve already tidied up, and got all my clothes on, and put on cologne...” These were all the reasons he had firmly told himself in the mirror earlier as he tied his tie, perfectly good, solid, reasonable reasons, but holding onto their importance now felt like trying to grasp handfuls of dry sand.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s what that is. You smell great.” Red hair tickled his cheek as Crowley leaned in to his neck and inhaled deeply. “New?”

“Oh. Well, yes, in fact.” He’d been secretly hoping he would notice. “I bought it at that little shop downtown, last week.”

Soft lips kissed his neck, and kept kissing, trailing little blooms of warmth up to his jaw. “Mm, I like it. As for the rest, that’s easily fixed.” Those hands were busy now, untucking the rest of the dress shirt and groping under it. Aziraphale shuddered, feeling all his carefully-hoarded willpower swiftly eroding away like ice under hot water at the brush of those clever fingers. Something about the way Crowley touched and looked at him always made him feel so incredibly...desired. Worthwhile. It always set a happy glow flooding through him like a sunrise, a glow that had nothing to do with body heat, and made little things like chores and deadlines and clothes seem so very unimportant. He would have thought that after six thousand years of resisting him he would be even a _little_ bit good at it! Perhaps willpower was a finite resource, and he had used up all of his early on.

“But...I already combed my hair,” he said weakly. It sounded unconvincing even to himself.

One hand escaped from his shirt and tousled his hair, rubbing exaggeratedly through and around it several times until he must have looked as disheveled as his demon. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, incorrigible, and placed a kiss on his nose. "There, look at you now. You couldn’t possibly allow yourself to be seen in such a state. Why, you look like you’ve been...” Yellow eyes widened in feigned shock. “ _Fraternizing_.” He made the world a growl, and squeezed all four limbs around him.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and with a massive effort of will pushed himself up onto his hands, determinedly _not_ letting on how that had made his heart thump. “Listen here, you-”

“I guess you’ll just have to stay here, and have a lie-in after all,” Crowley interrupted. He smoothed a hand down his back again and pulled the blanket up to cover them both. “C’mon,” he wheedled. His voice was casual, but laced with an unmistakable note of hope. “Don’t you want to just curl up with me, in this nice, soft bed, and let me kiss you for a while?”

Aziraphale looked down at him, mouthing silent half-formed objections. Good Lord. If only that didn’t sound so _good_. The fine silk sheets were indeed very soft, and Crowley’s naked body was radiating a lovely seductive heat under him. He could feel it even through his clothes. Those eyes were locked on his own, gold all the way across the sclera, relaxed and fully revealed in the intimate way that he only allowed when they were completely alone.

“I suppose… maybe just for a couple minutes." With a reluctant sigh he slowly melted in that heat, down into those arms, which immediately wrapped around him and hugged him tightly. He glanced up and rolled his eyes at Crowley’s triumphant expression. “Oh, just, hush. This is only for a moment. There’s no need to look quite so pleased with yourself.”

“Isn’t there? It’s not every day that I seduce an angel, after all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you didn’t _seduce_ me. And anyway, yes it is,” he said in exasperation. He scooted down a little, getting into a more comfortable position and feeling that uncovered warmth press all along his own body. It felt marvelous. “You really are terribly inconvenient, you know that?” he grumbled as he kissed his chest.

“I prefer the term ‘convincing’.” Crowley closed his eyes and just kept grinning and hugging him against himself, pleased as punch now that he had what he wanted. “Ooh. Keep wiggling like that.”

Aziraphale suddenly realized the way he was moving, and more importantly where he was moving, and froze. “You are _impossible._ ”

“Yeah. Impossible to resist.”

Aziraphale scoffed, refusing to smile. “What’s got into you?”

“You, if I’m lucky.”

“Crowley! Oh-” He spluttered for a few seconds, trying to maintain a stern demeanor, but laughter ran far too close to the surface, and he barely managed to avoid giggling. “For _heaven’s_ sake. Control yourself.”

“Naahhhhh.” Crowley turned the word into a drawl. He tucked one arm behind his head and gazed up at him with those bright slitted eyes, captivating, and rested the other hand soft on his cheek. “Been there, done that.”

And there he went again, turning still and serious in the blink of an eye, making Aziraphale suddenly feel like his heart was too large for his body. When Crowley got these bursts of intensity he could physically _feel_ the emotion flaring up from him, like a signal beacon in the night. He felt it now, so powerful that it stole his breath away and left him stammering for words. He swallowed and managed, “Well...yes. Perhaps we have had enough of...um...” He trailed off as Crowley kissed his forehead and slid both his arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to his chest. Aziraphale went limp against him and sighed, rubbing his cheek against that so-familiar warm skin that always held just a hint of woodsmoke and musk. What a simple, beautiful thing it was to be held like this. There was a deep magic to it that couldn’t be quantified; it mortared up cracks in his spirit that he hadn't even known were there. It made him whole.

“So what do you say?” Crowley murmured. He rubbed his back in little circles and started playing with his hair, combing at it with his fingertips. His body was still humming with love like a struck tuning fork, a clear, pure tone that rang through his awareness until he could think of nothing else. Impossible to ignore.

“Alright!” Aziraphale burst out, making Crowley jump. “Alright, fine!” He sat up astride him, and began loosening his already-askew bow tie with little jerky motions. “Fine, _fine_ , you win! You're so, so...” He yanked the undone tie out of his collar and flung it onto the nearby desk chair. “So...” He pursed his lips and stared down at his husband, who was grinning up at him again.

“I think the word you are looking for is ‘dashing’. Or possibly ‘undeniably right’.”

“The word I’m looking for,” he replied tartly, “would be too rude to say aloud.” He unbuttoned and wiggled out of his trousers, figuring that he might as well be comfortable, ignoring Crowley’s snickering as he kicked his legs free. So much for angelic fortitude against temptation. “I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” he muttered, aggrievedly wadding the recently-ironed fabric into a ball. Why had he even bothered? “I had _plans_.” He wasn’t even sure who he was more exasperated with- himself or Crowley. How could he be upset with him when he didn’t even _want_ to resist?

“Well, that's alright then. Now I can make _you_ breakfast.”

“No!” Aziraphale brandished the crumpled trousers at him, accidentally thwacking him in the face. “You see, that’s _precisely_ what I didn’t want to happen!”

Crowley’s brow was creased in a puzzled frown. “You- you don’t want breakfast?” In a tone of complete disbelief.

“No- I mean, yes, of course I do, I just- oh, never mind.” He deflated and pinched between his eyes. “Fine. I will make you a deal. I’ll stay as long as you want, but then _I_ am making _you_ breakfast today. And you are _not_ allowed to get up and help; I’ll tie you down if I have to.”

“Promise?” His grin was positively lecherous now.

“And you can’t give me anything in return,” Aziraphale soldiered on, ignoring him, ignoring his own treacherous pulse as it leapt around and started doing cartwheels.

“Wait, why not?”

“Because the last time I gave you a book, you gave me a bloody star!”

“Ooooh!” Crowley gasped theatrically, putting a hand to his chest. “Great galloping Moses, a swear word! From an angel! This must be _serious_!” He wore a delighted grin and nothing else (and _why_ did his mind have to keep pointing that out?!). “And it wasn’t _just_ a book.”

“Even so,” he insisted.

“Okay, okay, nothing in return, got it,” he said, reaching up to ruffle his hair again with a smirk. “Aw, don’t look like that. It’s not so bad, is it? It’s just a little bit of temptation accomp-”

Aziraphale quickly put a finger on his lips, pausing halfway through the motion of tossing away his trousers.

“If you make that joke one more time,” he said seriously, “I am putting these back on.”

Crowley just cackled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I most certainly think that I would.” He stared him down, hoping he looked more resolute than he felt.

Crowley eyed him skeptically, weighing his resolve. He apparently decided not to call his bluff, because he huffed and chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking. “Fine. Then how about, ‘mission successful’?”

“That will do.” Aziraphale looked down at him with a resigned sigh. “You _do_ realize that you’ve made me waste all the effort I put into getting ready today?”

“Yep.” He was running his hands around on his waist with lower lip caught between his teeth, and didn’t look even remotely repentant.

A quick snap of Aziraphale’s fingers sent the rest of his clothing spinning off his body and across the room, to hang itself neatly in the wardrobe. He braced his hands on Crowley’s chest and leaned in close to his face, relishing the way his golden eyes had widened. “I _fully_ expect you to make it worth my while,” he said softly.

“Um,” said Crowley. He had frozen in place, hands arrested mid-grope.

Aziraphale finally grinned at him, threw himself into his arms- and stopped resisting.

* * *

To his immense relief, Aziraphale found that the three-wheeled bicycle was very easy to ride; _far_ better than the nonsensical thing he had tried to use during their lesson.

They had driven the relatively short distance to Staunton Country Park, which according to the website was the perfect place for beginner cyclists like himself (well, for "families with small children", technically, but he was reading between the lines). So far it had been just as much fun as he’d always envisioned. Liberated from the fear of falling over, he was free to simply enjoy the ride, look about him and enjoy the scenery. _All_ of the scenery, ahem. Crowley rode directly ahead of him on his bright red bicycle, wearing his characteristic tight jeans and a dark grey, long sleeved t-shirt that fit his narrow frame very well.

Nature, Aziraphale reflected dreamily, could be quite lovely. 

The day was still crystal clear and brilliantly sunny, and the sprawling, picturesque grounds made the perfect backdrop for a new and exciting experience. Crowley led him in a wide, meandering path around the lake where swans glided by with dignified grace, over manicured rolling hills and past beautiful, crumbling old stone ruins. He suspected that a lot of the more wild, offroad woodland areas they rode through were not intended for public access at all, but oddly enough no one noticed or remarked upon their presence. In fact, they encountered a very suspiciously nonexistent number of people for such lovely weather- the entire park was nearly deserted. When he finally remarked upon it Crowley only said “Hmmmm,” and looked very smug. The implications of _that_ were rather alarming, so he decided not to ask.

They were ultimately on the prowl for a good place to stop and eat. A large wooden picnic basket was tied firmly between the back wheels of his bicycle, in the metal basket specifically allocated for such things, stuffed with all the foods that the bakery owner had insisted were classic human necessities. After all this time, they were going to do this picnic thing _properly_. He pedaled his unhurried way along the level dirt paths, content with his stately pace while Crowley zipped wide circles around him on his two-wheeled contraption.

“You’re gonna have to go a bit faster if you want to find a place before sunset, angel,” he called out to him as he zoomed past for the hundredth time. The demon was standing up on the pedals in a way that looked decidedly unsafe, arms braced on the handlebars, hair blowing straight back from his face and shirt flapping in the self-created wind. He was grinning like a madman and looked like he was having the time of his life. Despite the bright sun he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his unguarded, smiling eyes were fully golden and inhuman again.

“I’m going plenty fast, thank you.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin back, even as he suppressed a pang of envy at his effortless mastery. He loved seeing him like this. The playfulness that he’d always known was there (though previously visible only in short flashes) had surfaced in earnest over the last year, and it filled him with so much joy. Crowley was as lovely as...well, as Crowley. He was uniquely wonderful in his own ineffable way.

Aziraphale suspected that he was also showing off a little. It was working.

They finally found a perfect picnic spot tucked under a grove of trees far from the riding paths, shady but warm, close enough to see the distant lake yet far enough away to feel private. They lay down a chequered blanket (every picture he had ever seen featured that particular pattern) on the grass and unpacked all the nice things that Aziraphale had purchased the day before. There were two kinds of sandwiches, sliced neatly on the diagonal with the crusts removed, paired with soft cheese and crackers and fresh sliced fruit. There was jam and cream-filled scones, and hot Cornish pasties, and a bottle of champagne kept miraculously ice-cold. He popped the cork and poured them each a generous serving, and they settled in side by side to enjoy themselves.

Crowley reached out to tap their glasses together. "To the world’s longest raincheck,” he said with a crooked smile.

“To finally getting it right,” Aziraphale agreed with a firm nod.

They drank; the champagne was delicious and cool as an autumn wind. It made the perfect counterpoint to the warm sunshine after their hour of exertion. Crowley kicked off his shoes and lounged back against a tree with eyes closed and one knee bent, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and radiating casual ease. The afternoon sunlight caught in his recently-shortened hair and brought out burnished copper highlights. 

Aziraphale turned his attention back to his drink before he could get too distracted. So, this was a picnic, he thought contentedly as he sipped. The sky beyond their shady canopy was a bright, unshadowed blue, with occasional watercolor streaks of white cloud drifting overhead. A rare English summer day indeed. Birdsong drifted along the light breeze, adding a soundtrack to the sweeping green landscapes and melding with the rustle of leaves overhead. Brightly-colored wildflowers dotted the grass around them while bees industriously worked away.

 _What an absolutely marvelous world,_ he thought. Those other idiots hadn’t the faintest idea what they were missing by refusing to live down here. They held themselves so superior, with all their aloof scoffing at humans and earthly pleasures, and for what? Experiences and joys in Heaven were more...vast, he supposed, like an enormous mountain, but also as distant as one. Human moments like this were like sparks struck off flint and steel, but no less bright or memorable for all that they were fleeting. Their beauty was only sharpened by their temporary nature. Nothing he had ever experienced up there compared to the sheer vitality of bubbles sparkling on his tongue, the smell of fresh grass and the visceral joy of Crowley's presence next to him.

He had never realized quite how lonely he was, in all those years before. Having a real, breathing person to love was both simple and powerful enough to move galaxies.

Lost in thought, he glanced over - and caught Crowley just looking at him. He was sitting up leaning on one arm, the champagne glass slack in his fingers, gazing at him with such unguarded tenderness, the way he often did when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. He’d caught him at it more and more since their misadventure with Hastur, but this time he couldn't pretend not to notice. He blushed and looked down at his own glass.

“Oh, _stop_ looking at me like that, darling.”

“Like what?” Crowley leaned in closer and brushed his fingers down the side of his face, and Aziraphale closed his eyes. There it was again- that pulse of emotion from him, bright as the noon sun, originating from a point directly behind his sternum.

“Like...” _Like I’m one of the Crown Jewels. Like I’m some sort of miracle. “_ Just...like that.”

Callused fingers slid under his chin, tilting his face back up. “Aren't I allowed to look at my husband?” Crowley asked quietly. His voice was suddenly very, very close, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to find intent gold ones only an inch away. The slitted pupils were soft and expanded wide, and in a flood of vivid memory he realized that they were posed in an exact mirror of that night after the Ritz. The moment of their first kiss. Just like that night he found himself unable to speak, but this time it was him who leaned across the short distance and pressed their lips gently together. Next thing he knew he was being pulled into the taller man’s arms for the second time that day. Crowley embraced him tight and kissed him thoroughly enough to make him lightheaded, and Aziraphale let his half-full glass drop onto the blanket with a soft thump as he wrapped his arms around his neck. The demon smelled like clean sweat and tasted like champagne, and for a brief moment he imagined he could feel the earth turn beneath them. 

An indeterminable time later, Crowley set him upright again and gently let him go. “I like looking at you. I’m not going to stop,” he said matter-of-factly, as if there had been no pause at all. He jerked his chin towards the food. “Sandwich?”

“Uh...yes. Yes please.” Aziraphale blinked dazedly and reminded himself to breathe, and retrieved his fallen champagne glass before he could accidentally crush it. He accepted an egg sandwich and a napkin from Crowley, who took an enormous bite of his own sandwich with a satisfied air.

He spread the napkin carefully across his lap and reached for an apple slice, smiling to himself. "Darling, I'm curious..." 

“Yeah?” Crowley said with his mouth full. He hadn't bothered with the napkin. 

"That night last year, when you kissed me for the first time. What finally gave you the courage?"

Crowley mulled that over for a moment, expression faraway. “I dunno.” He took another bite of the sandwich without looking at it, chewing thoughtfully. “We had all of forever stretching ahead, and...I just couldn’t stand another six thousand years the way we had been going on. Not if there was a chance I could change it.” He looked at him again with that same crooked smile. “I guess surviving the End Times had me feeling a bit bold.” 

“You weren’t nervous?” 

Crowley snorted, inhaled his sandwich, and promptly began to choke. He wheezed and pounded on his chest a few times while Aziraphale watched in mild alarm. He finally recovered himself with an emphatic cough, and shook his head incredulously. 

“Bloody hell, angel! Of course I was nervous. For all I knew, you were going to smite me into a greasy blot on the floor.” He went to take another bite, then apparently thought better of it and took a big gulp of champagne instead. “I just figured I’d take my chances.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Well, thank heavens you did. And thank heavens Times didn’t end after all.” He held out his glass. “Kindly be bold enough to pour me a refill, love.”

Once they had eaten their fill, they finally brought out the gloriously sticky chocolate cake that he had picked up earlier that morning. Crowley held it just out of reach and casually suggested that it would be more fun to eat it with their fingers. When he started to protest that no, absolutely not, it was far too messy, the demon vanished away the plates and silverware with a snap of his fingers and a wicked smile. Aziraphale was forced to allow himself to be fed bites of cake by hand, piece by delectable piece, feigning outrage the entire time and secretly wondering why he hadn’t thought of this himself months ago. When they were done he delicately licked his own fingers clean, pretending not to notice while Crowley pretended (badly) not to stare.

He now lay with his head pillowed in Crowley’s lap, in a reversal of their usual position, while the demon fed him summer strawberries dipped in white sugar. The sun had moved far overhead as the afternoon progressed, and the tree boughs above cast a dappled pattern of green and gold across them both. They had just been talking of nothing and laughing about silly things for the last half hour and were currently in a quiet lull. Crowley had plucked a violet wildflower and was rolling it idly between his fingers.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands across his middle, utterly replete and utterly happy. "I love you," he murmured. "I wish we had done this years ago." 

"Well, we could have, if you only hadn’t been so stubborn." Crowley softened the reproach with a grin, and reached down to tuck the purple flower into his shirt pocket.

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale rested his hand over the flower and bit his lip. This was his chance to address something that had been bothering him for a while. He sighed, looking up at his husband. "Darling, I wanted to tell you- I’m so sorry for all the times I hurt you over the years.”

Crowley stared down at him blankly, his grin fading. “Wait, back up. What? What are you talking about?”

“Well, other than the obvious? For example, like what I said to you at the bandstand.”

“What bandstand?” Crowley looked absolutely baffled.

“What-? _The_ bandstand, of course, you silly thing. The third alternate rendezvous? Last year, right before Armageddon. That day when I told you I didn’t like you, and that we weren’t on the same side.” The memory still made him cringe.

Crowley blinked, then gave his head a little shake. “You’re worrying about _that_?” he scoffed. “Don’t, angel, that was ages ago!”

“Less than a year. No time at all. And anyhow...time isn’t an apology.” He looked down and fiddled with his wedding ring, twisting it around on his finger. “I realised I never actually apologised for that, did I?

“Well...no. But it’s fine.”

“It isn’t. I was horrible to you. I didn’t mean it, and you didn’t deserve it.” He swallowed. “I did lots of things like that. I don’t know what I was thinking; I barely recognise myself.”

“Hey, hey, stop." Crowley put a restraining hand on his head, stroking his hair. "All is forgiven, that’s all far behind us now. It wasn’t exactly an easy time, then. We both said things we didn’t mean.”

“You didn’t. You were always honest with me.”

“Well...I do remember saying that I wouldn’t think of you. And I called you stupid.”

“Hm. That’s right, you did.” Aziraphale looked up at him and finally smiled, feeling a tiny bit better. “But I _was_ being stupid.”

Crowley bent over and kissed his forehead. “Believe it or not, it’s one of your most endearing qualities. And it all worked out, didn’t it?”

“ _Thanks_ for that. But I suppose it did. I suppose if I had run off with you that day, none of this might still exist.”

“Exactly, there you go.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him, feeling lighter, and closed his eyes with a sigh. He hadn't even realized how heavily that had weighed on him until it was gone.

“Plus...” Crowley said, rather hesitantly. He gave a sheepish laugh. “I mean, it’s not as if I’ve never done anything to cause _you_ stress, eh?”

“I suppose that’s true.” He smiled and lay there contentedly for a second. Then his eyes popped open as the cagey tone worked its way through his awareness.

“Wait,” he said suspiciously. “What in particular are you referring to?”

“Er…nothing specific.” Crowley was looking up, pretending to be fascinated by the branches above them and determinedly avoiding his eyes.

“I know that look, you old serpent. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Crowley!”

“Well...nothing really...just...I might have sort of had something to do with those things over there.” He nodded to the velocipedes parked a couple yards away.

“Something to do with them,” Aziraphale repeated, narrow-eyed. “Elaborate. Those velocipedes in particular?”

Crowley was clearly trying to play it cool, but his Adam’s apple jumped visibly as he gulped. “Well...bicycles in general. I might have...uh...invented them. Completely by accident, of course.”

“ _What?!”_ Aziraphale sat bolt upright and stared at him. A flock of birds burst into startled flight from a bush nearby, but he paid them no attention. “You did _what?”_

“It was an accident!” Crowley winced and held out his hands as if to fend him off, sounding slightly panicked now. “I only drew some sketches, I was rather sloshed at the time, it’s all a bit fuzzy, and, uh…it kind of got out of hand, to be honest. I didn’t think they’d be _popular_!”He stared at him defiantly, still looking like he was expecting an attack. “And it was a long time ago!”

“It was _you?_ ” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You! I should have _known_! You know, when I was careening down that blasted hill I thought, ‘Crowley would get such a laugh out of this,’ and sure enough…” he slapped the blanket next to him with the flat of his hand, feeling absurdly vindicated. “No doubt it was my angelic instincts trying to warn me of, of infernal influences. Are you _serious_? So they were all _your_ demonic work!” He glared in righteous indignation at the contraptions just sitting there, glinting innocently in the sun. It had probably been the most humiliating experience of his entire long life.

“Well, how was I to know that the idiot humans would mass-produce them? And I didn’t ask _you_ to try to ride one down a bloody hill...” Crowley cautiously lowered his hands, still watching him apprehensively. “Sorry?”

Aziraphale wanted to keep scowling at him, he really did, but a laugh suddenly bubbled up inside him, and it was all he could do to not grin. He pursed his lips and looked off in to the distance. “Hmph.”

After a long moment of silence Crowley scooted in closer against his back and rested his chin on his shoulder. “So you were thinking of me, even back then, huh?” Warm arms slid around his waist and squeezed. 

_Oh for heavens sake._ “Yes, Crowley. When I was irritated and embarrassed, I immediately thought of you,” Aziraphale muttered. “Well done.”

“But you _were_ thinking of me.” He was grinning again, that much was obvious in his voice.

Aziraphale glanced at him sidelong, nose still in the air. “Only a little.” He couldn’t stop one side of his mouth from quirking upward just a bit. More demonic wiles, no doubt.

“Well, today was fun, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t invented them we wouldn’t have been able to do this. Don’t I get a little bit of credit for that too?” The arms around his waist slid upwards to wrap around his chest and pull them close together.

He was in too good a mood to maintain the facade. Aziraphale sighed, and relented. “A sliver, I grant you.” He leaned back and kissed him gently on the mouth, and finally let himself smile. “Very well. We'll call it square.”

"Oh, good." Crowley smiled back, looking relieved. 

“Although, if you still feel guilty, there is one thing you can do to make it up to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale lay back down in his lap and tapped imperiously on his knee. “Cut me another slice of cake, darling. And more strawberries, please.”

Crowley snorted and reached for the picnic basket. “Sure, angel. Whatever you like.”

* * *

Illustration by @lonicera.caprifolium (IG)


	8. A Trick of the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up (again)... but fear not

* * *

Crowley pushed open the front door, carefully balancing a white bakery box in his other hand. He paused, listening for a moment, but all was silent, so he kicked off his shoes and padded quietly into the house.

It was a bloody godawful unholy early hour of the morning; barely even light outside, not to mention damp and cold. Just awful. Naturally, it was one of Aziraphale’s favourite times. He had the appalling habit of leaping from their bed, putting on music and “greeting the day”, as he put it, while Crowley glared balefully at him from within his cocoon of blankets. Morning people really were one of the Almighty’s most inexplicable creations. 

Normally being awake like this would leave his mood wedged somewhere between half-drowned cat and overturned beehive, but today he was grinning. He had actually managed to sneak out of bed before Aziraphale, for once, which was a minor miracle in its own right and had required every sneaky skill he possessed. Lately they had entered into a kind of merry war to see who could spoil the other more, and he was determined to win. He hadn’t spent millennia honing his temptation skills to lose to an angel of all things; he could never live that down, so up he had got (though not without an internal wail). It had been worth it. Aziraphale’s favourite little patisserie had _miraculously_ opened early, and he was looking forward to surprising him with fresh chocolate eclairs. 

He juggled the box awkwardly back and forth as he wiggled off his jacket one-handed and tossed it onto the wooden coat rack, then poked his head into the kitchen. From here he could see that Aziraphale wasn’t in his reading chair in the sitting room, so that meant he was still upstairs - either asleep or (more likely) in his library with his head buried in a pile of books, reorganizing them by year or something. Perfect. He set the box on the counter and pulled a plate from the upper cupboard shelf, humming tunelessly to himself. As an afterthought, he tiptoed across to the Garden Room and picked a couple handfuls of the striped violet flowers that Aziraphale particularly liked. He swiftly tied them into a bouquet with a gold ribbon he'd been saving, then sprinted back over to the counter and opened the pastry box. 

_Mrow._

He glanced down to see that Menace had come over and was pressing against his ankles. “Forget it,” he said sternly. 

The little black cat continued to stare imploringly up at him, green eyes wide and hopeful. The once-thin fur had grown in thick and glossy over the two months they had lived here, but the right ear was still as ragged as ever. Crowley had a bit of a soft spot for the former stray. He couldn’t help but admire any creature as stubbornly reckless and chaotic as cats were- they had quite a bit in common with demons, really. 

“Don’t give me that look. You'll get breakfast soon enough,” Crowley muttered, turning his attention back to the task at hand. That thing was as bad as Aziraphale; it would snack nonstop if he let it. He used one stockinged foot to prod the protesting cat away, which worked for about two seconds before it came back and started yowling again. Ugh, he’d created a monster. The way it carried on you would think it was dying. 

"Shut it." He carefully arranged both eclairs on the plate, then picked it up along with the flowers and turned to go. 

“ _Gahsonofabitch!_ ” Menace had twined himself through his legs, and he nearly went sprawling as he tripped. It was probably the most remarkable athletic feat of his life that he did not lose the plate with the pastries; he saved them only by a kind of midair contortion that would have injured someone less flexible. He did drop the flowers. He barely caught himself on the counter with other arm outstretched, then straightened and just stood there panting for a second. 

“Little bastard.” He glared down at the cat, and green eyes stared coolly back. The tip of the black tail twitched. _Mrow._

Crowley sighed. 

He glanced furtively around, then set down the plate and reached over to pluck a cat treat from the small earthenware jar by the sink. “Just one, understand? Then you shut up for the rest of the morning.” He tossed the treat to Menace, who pounced on it. 

“A- _HA_!” 

Crowley nearly had a heart attack at the triumphant shout- he leapt about a foot into the air, and for a second he could swear his heart actually seized. If he had been still holding the eclairs they would have gone flying across the room – as it was he managed to knock over the jar of treats and bang his knee on the corner of the cupboard. He clutched his chest and spun around, cursing loudly, to find Aziraphale standing almost close enough to touch. 

The angel was fully dressed, and had his arms crossed with a smug grin on his face. “I just _knew_ you’d been feeding him extra, despite all your protests. He’s getting fat and I knew it wasn’t from me. Good morning, by the way.” 

Crowley’s heart was still trying to escape his body, and he swallowed and massaged at his chest. “Christ, angel, if you’re trying to kill me there are better ways.” His knee throbbed, and he groaned and bent to rub it too. It didn’t help. 

“Language, dear.” Aziraphale's eyes had that little gleam that said he knew exactly what he was doing. “And you clearly had a guilty conscience.” 

“I’m a demon. I don’t have a conscience,” he muttered. “Aaaargh.” His knee felt like he had taken a sledgehammer to it. 

“Mmm hmmm.” Blue eyes slid past him, to the plate on the counter, and his face lit up. “Are those for me?” 

Crowley glared up at him, still wincing. “No.” 

Aziraphale only beamed and took a step closer. “I think they are.” 

“ _One_ was going to be for you, but now I’m going to eat both.” 

“Tsk. That isn’t very nice.” 

He growled. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not ni-” 

Aziraphale could move surprisingly quickly when he wanted to. Before Crowley could finish the sentence his hand had darted out and yanked him forward by the wrist with a touch of that unnatural angelic strength. Then he was kissing him, soft arm tight around his waist, filling his head with white noise as his happiness meter overloaded with a faint _pop._ The throbbing pain in his knee swiftly faded away as well, and he realized that Aziraphale must have used a touch of healing power. He sighed in relief and leaned into the kiss. 

It really wasn't fair. After so many millennia of dancing around each other, stepping forward only to have Aziraphale step back, he was still utterly unprepared whenever the situation was reversed. Every time the angel took that crucial first step, for a brief instant it felt as if the world flipped on its head. Like he had stepped through a gauze curtain into some alternate reality populated with half-formed wishes and longings. It left him at a distinct disadvantage.

“Not nice, hmm? Are you sure about that?” Aziraphale asked softly. He kept his arm around his waist and ran a finger down his chest, from collarbone to navel, and the look he gave him _now_ was decidedly un-angelic. 

Crowley swallowed as his heart began to pound. “Uh. Yeah...” He tried to step back, but the counter was right behind him and he had nowhere to go. 

Aziraphale took one of his slack hands by the wrist and slid it over his own ample front, down his waistcoat. "Not even a little bit nice, my dear?” 

“I-” 

He kept moving that hand, all the way down and around, until it was firmly parked on the seat of his trousers. “Because I only allow nice demons to touch me,” he murmured, interrupting him. 

Crowley opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just stood there, hand frozen in place, mouthing wordlessly like a goldfish and feeling like he had suffered some kind of catastrophic internal error. If he had been able to think, he would have dwelled on how completely unjust the whole thing was. _He_ was supposed to be the one in charge of the situation, yet somehow... A snorting sound from the floor revealed that Menace was gobbling down the pile of spilled treats as fast as he could, doubtless sensing a limited window of opportunity. _Shit._ Things were spiraling out of control. 

While he was just standing there having a crisis, Aziraphale pressed closer and calmly reached around him, behind him, and retrieved the plate from the counter. “Thank you for the eclairs, my love.” He gave him a gentle, lingering kiss on the cheek and began slowly backing away towards the sitting room. 

Crowley watched him go, feeling bewildered. He opened his mouth to say something cutting and witty, but only managed, “I also got you flowers.” He gestured vaguely to the floor. At least they hadn't been crushed. 

Aziraphale beamed, settling onto the sofa and crossing his legs. “And you’re up so _early_. This is lovely. Now we have the whole day ahead.” He gave the cushion next to him an inviting pat. “Come sit. Desserts are meant to be shared.” 

“Nnngh.” Somehow, some way, despite undeniably winning the game he felt rather behind on the score. He glanced down to find Menace cleaning his paws and completely ignoring him. _Traitor_. He resignedly scooped up the flowers and went to join his husband for breakfast. 

Aziraphale was cheerfully pouring them cups of tea, and where exactly had that come from? He must have made it while he was gone, and had it waiting. Sneaky, sneaky angel. Sneaky, pretty angel. He was wearing a different waistcoat today, Crowley noticed, eyeing him surreptitiously as he sat down. He'd been doing that from time to time lately, slowly testing out new styles. "New" being a very relative term, of course. This new addition was a dark brown tweed instead of the usual caramel velvet, so...not exactly shattering the mould, here. The bow tie was new, too, a matching chocolate brown tartan with blue stripes. "The clothes look nice," he commented. They did look nice. All of him looked very nice, though he wasn’t about to say so at the moment. 

"Oh, do you think so?" The angel smoothed an anxious hand down his side, and gave him a nervous smile. "I wasn't sure if it was too much at once." 

Only with a great effort of will, the kind capable of moving continents and creating stars, did Crowley manage not to laugh. Instead he raised an eyebrow and looked him slowly up and down, gaze lingering, and let his mouth curve into an equally slow smirk. He kept at it until he saw a blush start to spread over the angel's cheeks, which was exactly what he had been aiming for. Ha. Turnabout, as they said, was fair play. He kept the eye contact and took an unhurried gulp of tea before responding. "Nope. Not too much," he drawled, and reached out to tug at the bow tie. 

Aziraphale flushed crimson and took a somewhat indelicate bite of his éclair, looking embarrassed but pleased. 

Crowley grinned and took a large bite of his own éclair, satisfied that he had made his point. They lapsed into a nice companionable silence, the way they did every morning, just sitting shoulder to shoulder and enjoying their food. At length the angel pulled out a book, and Crowley found his eyelids beginning to grow heavy as the morning caught up with him. It was still disgustingly early. He leaned his head against Aziraphale's blond one and closed his eyes. Once upon a time he might have found the quiet and stillness grating, but he had learned that a silence shared was infinitely superior to an empty one. When they were together it was not a trial to be left with his own thoughts. 

He had never let himself think the word _lonely,_ back in the old solitary days at his flat, because of course demons needed nothing and no one - they were never lonely. And they certainly didn’t miss hereditary enemies with sunny dispositions and terrible fashion sense. Enemies who smelled like parchment and did stupid sleight of hand and always knew the right things to say to both drive him mad and make his day. 

For that matter, angels were not supposed to enjoy the company of Agents of Darkness, yet here they were. 

_What a pair we make. The demon who dreamed of light, and the angel who dreamed of shadow._

He dismissed the whimsical thought with a wry shake of his head. He reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing the soft skin gently with his thumb. So many years between visits back then, to avoid drawing attention. So many years feeling his absence like a missing tooth, a cold, empty place inside. Time moved differently in the celestial and infernal realms - fifty earth years was a mere instant to the folks living between planes, but to those stuck crawling along the mortal coil it had seemed interminable. _Never again._ The protective fury that had been burning ever since the kidnapping briefly flared anew, and he squeezed the angel’s hand without realizing it. Nothing and no one was ever going to separate them again. 

Aziraphale smiled and lifted his hand to press his lips to his knuckles, eyes still on his book. “Do you mind if we go check the bookshop by the boarding school?” he asked absently as he turned a page. “I like that one; the people there make intelligent recommendations. And they might have something new in stock.” 

That made Crowley's eyes snap open. “Sure, why not.” He was careful not to sound too enthused, but this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

The little antiquarian bookshops in the area almost never had anything very special, but Aziraphale’s enthusiasm remained undimmed every time. He would happily spend hours burrowed away in shops like that: sleeves rolled up, eyes alight, digging through sagging shelves and untidy piles of books, his usually immaculate clothing covered in smudges of dust. It was actually pretty cute. 

Crowley had come to realize that it was the thrill of the hunt he enjoyed more than anything. The problem was that, as spectator sports went, it was inexpressibly boring - so he’d decided to spice it up. A week ago he’d managed to find and special order one particularly rare book online (a crumbling tome of ancient Celtic history that Aziraphale had mentioned), then hidden it carefully away in anticipation of this _very_ moment. 

He took another casual bite of éclair, suppressing the smirk he felt brewing. “Sounds like fun.” 

* * *

The bookshop, predictably, had no new first editions. Even more predictably, Aziraphale decided to start rummaging around anyhow, meticulously perusing every section even though he had already done so half a dozen times before. For once Crowley didn’t mind. He had smuggled his purchase in under his jacket, and the moment the angel was distracted he seized his chance and slipped away to a different part of the store. He selected a shelf and stuffed the rare book into a rather dusty stack, strategically wedging it between some unassuming volumes of history. He positioned it just so, tossed one or two more books on top of it for effect, and stood back with hands on hips to admire his handiwork. _Oh yeah._ _Showtime._

An elderly lady drifted over with a mind to browse the same area, but he took off his glasses and glowered so fiercely that she squeaked and quickly shuffled off in the opposite direction. He watched her go, just to make sure, then replaced the glasses and settled in to wait. He slouched around the shop with an ear out for the crucial moment, pretending to browse on his phone and trying not to go out of his mind with impatience. 

After nearly a full hour of waiting with baited breath, lurking while trying not to look like he was lurking (no easy feat, that), the waiting finally paid off. Aziraphale let out a loud gasp of excitement, and Crowley allowed himself a single triumphant fist-pump from the other side of the shelves.

He sauntered over and managed to exude only mild interest while the angel delightedly showed him his "find". He listened with private glee while his husband clutched the book to his chest and gushed on and on about how he had been searching for something like this for years, and how he had simply _known_ there would be a hidden gem in one of these shops eventually! And oh my, wasn’t it simply a marvelous day? With a giddy smile. Crowley agreed that it was quite the discovery, and contented himself with a satisfied smirk. Aziraphale was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as they walked up to the register to pay, still chattering about the excellent condition of the binding (whatever that meant) and beaming brightly enough to light up the whole store. Crowley somehow managed to _not_ laugh at the bookseller’s utter bewilderment as she wrapped up the unfamiliar book in brown paper and invented a price for them on the spot.

There was a bounce in his own step as he escorted his still-smiling angel to the front of the shop and opened the door, to reveal a light drizzle falling from the grey sky. Damn unpredictable weather. It had been a fine clear day when they set out. 

Aziraphale held out a hand palm up, testing. “Oh dear, it’s raining now. And cold. And me without my jacket.” He sighed regretfully and just stood there, waiting. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. Aziraphale thought he was _so_ subtle. He draped an indulgent arm over his shoulders and pulled him close against his side. “I’d offer you mine, but it wouldn’t fit.” He shot a quick glance around, then casually drew a black umbrella from the full umbrella stand by the door and shook it open. “Here, stay near to me.” 

“Wh- Are you _stealing_ that umbrella?” Aziraphale asked in a scandalized tone. 

“Announce it to the world, why don’t you? And ‘borrowed’, angel. Indefinitely borrowed is the word. We’ve a ways to walk; do you want to get soaked or not?” 

He could see it in Aziraphale’s face, the struggle between his natural aversion to theft and his (possibly even more) natural desire to keep his clothes and new book pristine. It was such an endearingly familiar expression by now, that scrunched brow and look of conflicted disapproval as he wrestled with himself- he had always worn the exact same expression whenever Crowley used to wheedle him into lunch dates. He kept his smile tucked firmly out of sight, and waited.

Practicality won out, apparently, because Aziraphale only heaved a dramatic sigh and put an arm around his waist without further protest. Crowley did grin now, and planted a brief kiss on the side of his head. _A marvelous day, indeed._ He held the pilfered umbrella over them both, and together they stepped out onto the pavement. 

About halfway down the street the rain slowed to nothing, so Crowley folded up the umbrella and hooked the wooden handle over his arm. 

“Now, that is odd,” Aziraphale said. He had stopped too, and was looking up at the sky with a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. He kept the precious wrapped book tucked close against his chest. “Are you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

“Look at the rain.” 

Crowley did, and realized with a start that it had not stopped raining at all. Not exactly. That is, the rain had simply _stopped_. Stopped in midair, each droplet hanging as if frozen in place. They were surrounded by a glittering curtain of silvery water in all directions. 

“Huh...” He squinted around, turning on the spot, but nothing else seemed out of ordinary. “Dunno. Sure it’s not you?” He prodded at a raindrop, and it left his fingertip wet. 

“Definitely not.” 

The street _did_ seem weirdly deserted for a Saturday afternoon, now that he thought about it. Not another pedestrian or car in sight, which was… disconcerting. The wind had stopped too, and it was eerily silent all up and down the street, almost like the world was holding its breath. "Well, that can't be good," Crowley muttered. He glanced around again and turned to look back the way they had come – and felt his blood run cold. 

Across the narrow street about five yards away, where there had been nothing but empty pavement a bare instant ago, now stood four motionless figures. Archangel Michael, that short bald angel- Sandalphon, he thought the name was - and two other angels he didn’t know were standing there, all in a line. Watching. 

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ Crowley felt each beat of his heart as though in slow motion, like the pounding of an executioner’s drum, as he stared at them. The last time he had seen Sandalphon, they’d been standing beside Gabriel as they sentenced him- well, Aziraphale- to death by hellfire. They were wearing the same expression now, a thin smirk that didn’t reach their eyes. Michael looked the same as always - cold and haughty. The other two, though - the other two angels wore military dress. 

All four angels had swords at their belts. 

“What…what do you suppose they want?” Aziraphale murmured uncertainly in his ear. 

Crowley would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been frozen solid with foreboding. “Angel,” he muttered, mind racing. “They didn’t bring an entire bloody contingent to deliver a greeting card.” His feet were rooted to the ground. This was it, the scenario he had deliberately _not_ thought of, refused to think of, averted his mental eyes from at all costs, because it suffused him with so much dread. It had whispered in the back of his mind ever since his final confrontation with Hastur at the warehouse. ‘ _They’re embarrassed, Crawly, both sides are.'_ Both sides. And Hastur’s curious certainty that he would not be punished… 

He had hoped that after all this time there would be no retribution forthcoming. He had convinced himself that Hastur’s words had meant nothing, with the desperate faith of someone who is powerless to change things either way. 

Now, staring at the line of angels, he was abruptly standing on a frozen lake, watching cracks spiderweb out from his feet. Feeling the ground give just a bit under him, threatening to drop into the icy depths. He groped blindly for Aziraphale’s hand at his side and clenched it tight, heart pounding. 

Sandalphon smiled, a distinctly unpleasant expression. Gold glinted. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” 

* * *


	9. A Reckoning

* * *

“Hello Aziraphale.” Sandalphon spoke first, coldly. He didn’t even bother looking at Crowley. “Demon.” 

Aziraphale twitched in instinctive distaste at that snide voice- he had never liked Sandalphon at the best of times. He shot a glance at Crowley. The demon had gone rigid, and was staring at the angels with such grim understanding, mouth a hard flat line. Behind the dark glasses his face was pale. His warm fingers were clenched tight through his own and had begun to sweat. 

“…Hello,” he replied warily. “What, may I ask, are you doing here?” It was just something to say, really, an automatic nothing, as he processed the shock of seeing them again. He suddenly noticed the white uniforms, and saw with a hideous lurch that all four angels wore swords at their hips. Belated understanding smote him like a blow to the face, and he took a startled step backward with a sharp indrawn breath. They had brought _enforcers_. 

“We’ve come to clean up your mess,” Michael replied. 

The line of angels took a step forward in unison, and there was a world of silent threat in that simple movement. 

Aziraphale slowly backed further away down the street, pulling Crowley with him. “Sweetheart, get behind me, hurry,” he whispered urgently. If they had brought soldiers, then they were definitely not interested in a peaceful chat. Fear was lodged thick in his throat, and he held tight to his husband's hand. This was very, very bad. If they had truly decided to come for him, the best he could hope for was to keep Crowley out of harm’s way.

“Come now, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” Michael continued, sounding exasperated. “This has gone on far too long.” 

Crowley suddenly jerked away from his restraining hand and stepped in front of him, between him and the angels, shoving him behind his back. “No,” he growled. He spread his arms protectively and stood resolute, so brave, and Aziraphale was suddenly terrified for him. He wouldn't stand a chance against even one angel, let alone four. 

“No, no darling, don’t-” He dropped the wrapped book to the ground and reached for his arm with both hands, meaning to pull him away. 

Crowley shook him off without looking at him; he grabbed the front of his collared shirt and held him forcibly back with one hand. The set of his narrow shoulders was hunched and tense as he addressed the four figures. “Wait. No. This isn't right,” he snapped. 

The angels only took another eerily synchronized step forward. They were all looking at Crowley with identical expressions of thinly-veiled disgust, as if he were some horrid, slimy thing that had crawled out from under a rock. It broke Aziraphale’s heart and infuriated him at the same time, and for a moment he forgot to be afraid. How dare they. How _dare_ they look at him like that, like he was worthless. 

Crowley was still speaking, faster now. “There's no point in hurting him; he only did what I convinced him to do.” 

_What?_ “Oh, no you don’t.” He yanked at his arm again, but Crowley only grabbed a bigger handful of his shirt and tightened his grip, not letting him move. 

“All of it was my idea.” Crowley held him firmly in place behind him as he spoke. “Stopping the War, everything. I wasn't ready to give up tormenting humans, so I duped him into helping me. I convinced him it was best for both sides. You know as well as I do how gullible he is, it was hardly a challenge.” He was clearly trying for arrogance, but there was barely-controlled fear in his voice like he had never heard before, not even at Armageddon when the entire world was ending. That, more than anything, set his insides trembling. Crowley was fearless. 

"For heaven's sakes, Crowley, stop it!" Aziraphale smacked at him, too scared for his safety to be indignant about what he had said. He gave up on persuasion and grappled with his arm, prying his fingers away, but Crowley was serpent-quick. He kept adjusting his grip as fast as he broke it. Aziraphale finally gave up trying to free himself and held on to the demon’s bony wrist with both hands instead, figuring he could drag him away like a sack of potatoes if nothing else. _For all the good it will do,_ he thought desperately. There was no way they could run fast enough, not to outpace these people. 

The four angels just stood there in their clean, crisp suits, hands folded before them, watching with faces set in expressions of cool detachment. You could have heard a pin drop on the empty street. 

Crowley's throat clicked audibly in the terse silence as he swallowed, and he tried again. “He’s never done anything but try to save human lives. Isn’t that what you lot are all about?” When still no one moved or said a word, he made a frustrated, desperate gesture. “For fu- for Someone's sake, he’s one of your own! Don’t you have any mercy for your own kind?” 

Finally Sandalphon spoke, disdainfully. “As it so happens, we aren’t here for him.” 

Crowley just stared at them, uncomprehending. “What?” 

There was no warning. Between heartbeats, the two uniformed angels vanished and reappeared from nowhere on either side of him. The fair-haired one seized Crowley’s wrists, breaking his grip on Aziraphale’s shirt and yanking his arms behind his back with casual strength. He started violently and struggled against them, feet sliding on the rain-slicked pavement, but only managed to knock his sunglasses off his face. 

_“Stop!_ ” Blind panic exploded in Aziraphale’s chest, and he grabbed hold of the angel’s arm. “Let _go_ of him!” He pulled as hard as he could, but he might as well have been trying to shift a mountain. He couldn’t even shift them off balance or loosen their hold. He let go, panting, and turned to look at Michael. “Let him go,” he demanded again. “What do you think you are doing?” A movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention; he whirled back to Crowley, to find that his captors had hauled him across the street in the eye-blink his head was turned. 

He strode purposefully towards them, but the dark-haired angel drew their sword with a metallic _shhhhing_ and blocked his path. Silvery light gleamed on and within the blade, deadly sharp and full of lethal promise, and it set his stomach churning with horror. A weapon like that could kill an angel, for good. It would make short work of a demon. He fetched up short and stared helplessly, aghast. He stood at the top point of a fatal triangle, with the captive Crowley to his right and the hard-countenanced ranking angels to his left. 

“Demon Crowley,” Michael intoned formally, ignoring Aziraphale’s panicked sputtering. “You have been found guilty of corrupting an angel. The sentence is death.” 

“ _What!?_ The _hell he has!_ ” Aziraphale yelled, beyond frantic. He couldn’t remember the last time he had truly yelled. Perhaps never in his life. He rounded back on Michael, chest heaving in little overwrought gasps. He tried to speak, but couldn’t get enough air to make a proper sound. He’d heard of the term ‘hyperventilating’ but had never experienced it himself, and if that’s what this was then he could happily go without it ever again. Trust his human body to betray him now, when he most needed all his faculties. His husband was saying something to him, protesting, but his ears were ringing too loudly to hear. He forced himself to take deep breaths and kept his focus on the archangel. 

“Stop this right now. He- he didn’t _corrupt_ me; that’s utter nonsense! Everything I did, I chose to do! You can’t just- just _kill_ him!" Anger flared. "You have _no_ right!” 

Sandalphon sneered at him from his place next to Michael, flashing hints of his gold teeth. “It is _you_ who has no right or standing to give orders here, Principality; have you forgotten that along with everything else? You're a disgrace to your kind and a mockery to your Office. You’ve plotted with the enemy against the Divine Plan, and cavorted in sin ever since! You’ve strayed so far from the path that I can’t fathom how you haven’t been struck down, in person!” 

“However,” Michael interjected, with a placating gesture, shooting a quelling look at Sandalphon, “you were an excellent operative for many years, Aziraphale, one of the best of us, so we have decided to be merciful and give you another chance.” 

Off to the side, Crowley scoffed. “That’s code for ‘they aren’t sure they can kill you, so they might as well try to recruit you back first’. Isn’t that right, fellas?” he asked bitterly. 

“Silence, fiend.” The dark-haired angel holding the sword cuffed him upside the head, like a recalcitrant child, and Aziraphale felt a dismayed rage bloom in his chest. It swelled until it blocked out the panic, and his voice suddenly had new strength. He balled his hands into fists and took a furious step forward. 

“Don’t you _touch_ him!” 

“Aziraphale, I-” Crowley began, but Michael spoke impatiently over him with a shake of their perfectly coiffed head. 

"Enough! This ends now. We should have put a stop to this madness centuries ago; we should have seen what was happening to you, but it went far deeper than we suspected.” They gestured to Crowley. “We clearly underestimated his strength. If we eliminate the demonic influence now, you still may be able to redeem your soul.” They gave him a swift, cold smile. “You will see this is for the best, I promise.” 

The dark haired angel with the sword seized the still-struggling Crowley by the back of the hair, forcing his chin up and holding the blade to his throat. They looked attentively towards Michael, clearly awaiting an order. 

“ _NO!_ ” Aziraphale was frozen with horror, leaning towards them with hands half outstretched. Too terrified to move and risk them hurting him. “Wait," he begged desperately, his voice weak and thready. "Waitwait _wait_. Please."

It simply _couldn’t_ end like this. Everything was happening so suddenly. How had they gone from such a normal day to a nightmare, _again_ , in the blink of an eye? The last time they had faced a disaster of this magnitude, they had eleven years to prepare. Now they were trapped, again, but this time they had no warning from Agnes Nutter to help, no clever plans or prophecies. Crowley would not be bursting dramatically in at the eleventh hour to save the day. They had nothing, and he didn’t know what to do. 

"Please wait.” He took another deep breath and forcibly calmed himself, forcing his mind to think. With a great effort he turned away from Crowley and faced Michael squarely- they were clearly the one in charge, the one he had to convince. He held his shaking hands out and tried to speak slowly, rationally, to defuse the situation. “Look, none- none of this is necessary. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding.” He gave a nervous laugh, though humour was the farthest thing from his mind. Inside he was quaking, but he wasn’t about to let them see that. “Nothing terrible has happened, I didn't betray anything, we didn’t actually do anything _bad_...” 

Michael looked at him as if he was raving. “Nothing bad? You turned your back on The Almighty, Aziraphale. You deliberately conspired with the Enemy against your own people and the Almighty’s Plan, turned traitor to your cause, and for what? For the sake of a demon and a few mayfly humans?” They grew louder and more vehement as they spoke, and the sharp, raw disgust in their voice lashed at him like a whip. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back to hide their tremors, and raised his chin. Something about trying to speak to these particular people always left him feeling weak and uncertain, no matter how far he had come. His knees were trembling as well, but he stood straight and his voice was clear. “I’ve actually given that quite a lot of thought.” He spoke in his most determinedly reasonable tone. “About our cause, I mean. We’re supposed to have been fighting a war for human souls, all this time. Since the beginning. But what was the point of fighting if, if they aren’t worth saving? You can’t fight for humans without loving them at least a little. And She loves them a _lot_ ,” he insisted earnestly. “How can we do otherwise?”

Sandalphon just looked at him, expression stony. “Do not presume to speak for the Almighty, Aziraphale. Her plans are ineffable, unknowable.” 

“ _Yes_ , the Plan may be Ineffable, it’s true,” he replied with asperity, growing heated now despite his resolve. How he _loathed_ Sandalphon. “It may not be possible for me to guess exactly what it is. But I think, very surely, that I can recognize what it _isn’t_. And I think you’ve got it wrong. I _don’t_ think Her plan involved killing off everyone horribly for no reason at all! It doesn’t make any sense, does it? Why would She put so much work into creating them, and sacrifice so much for humanity, only to destroy them like that? Just for some- some _stupid_ war that can be averted.” He took a deep, shaky breath, and plowed on, reckless. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“What _I_ think is that She was testing _us_ , to see what we would do. I think it was all part of the Plan. I think _stopping_ it was part of the Plan. I don’t think we could have stopped it if it wasn’t. So you see, I have not turned my back on The Almighty’s Plan; I’ve only turned my back on _yours_. I only fought your plan for Armageddon because- because I don’t think it was ever truly Hers at all.” 

It was the first time he had dared say it aloud, and as he did the certainty of it settled into his bones. A thousand half-formed doubts and misgivings, myriad private qualms; that shiver of guilty unease that had dogged him through so much of his life – the entire quagmire suddenly hardened into a solid bedrock of conviction, and oh...what a joy it was, to find solid ground at last. It was one thing to know something, and another entirely to _feel_ it in your blood, and he understood it now like sunlight or gravity. And it was _freeing_. He planted his feet on that understanding and exhaled harshly, elated, nerves jangling, and finally allowed himself to look at his husband. “We had it all wrong,” he said softly, and it was a confession. Crowley had just stood there throughout his speech, all coiled tension and intense yellow eyes as he watched him, head still pulled painfully back. There was a faint smile on his lips and a fierce pride burning in his lovely face, and in that moment Aziraphale wanted nothing more in the world than to take him into his arms. 

“It is written-” Michael began. 

“We had it _wrong_ , I tell you!” he interrupted, turning his attention back to the threat at hand. Tears were stinging at his eyes now, breaking through his careful composure, and he roughly blinked them away with a shake of his head. His hands behind his back were clenched tight enough to make his knuckles creak. “We almost made a terrible, terrible mistake, but don’t you see, we have another chance now!” he said earnestly. “We can do it right, we can protect the humans and do things the way the Almighty actually intended. We can fight the war that actually matters. We can help them make good choices, and make things better, and…” he trailed off. Michael was shaking their head sadly. 

“You’ve clearly forgotten who you are, Aziraphale. You’ve lost your way, and forgotten where your loyalties lie.” 

“Wha- No, didn't you hear what I said? You see, I-” 

“Maybe you think you mean well,” they cut him off, “but such long exposure to this foul creature has clearly corrupted your thinking. This is necessary. We would have preferred that his kind handle this internally, but after that show of incompetence" - with an irritated roll of their eyes - "we were left with little choice.”

“Incompetence,” Aziraphale repeated numbly. He felt as if he was in a dream. In his mind‘s eye he was seeing Crowley’s battered body from that night at the warehouse, the scorched hair and shadowed, haunted eyes. “You were... working with those demons?” He glanced over at Crowley, who didn’t seem surprised at all. His face showed only grim resignation.

Michael flicked their fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Nothing so crude as that. We simply…neglected to intervene, when we learned of it. _You_ were not supposed to be harmed. We did not anticipate that they would dare to go so far.” They walked over to him now and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You will understand, later, when your mind is clearer. We are doing what needs to be done to bring you back to yourself. To bring you back home to your family.” They sounded almost sorry, in their own distant, condescending way. “Enough, Principality. You know this is the right thing to do. It’s only a demon, after all.” 

Aziraphale stared at them, speechless, then looked around at the other three, beseeching. He looked from face to face, hoping to find even a shred of softening there. 

Every single one of them looked back, clear-eyed and confident. Unrelenting. 

He realized then that a tiny, distant part of himself had been clinging to the hope that if he just _explained_ it properly, that if he just found the right words to point out what they were missing…that they would see. That they would understand their error. That they would do the right thing. That somehow what had happened before was a misunderstanding, that surely they couldn’t truly be like this, think like this. As he stared into those unyielding faces, he felt that foolish hope flicker and die. His shoulders slumped under the weight of Michael’s hand. 

A numb, cold resolve settled in his gut, hardening into action. He made a choice. 

_Fine._

With one quick twisting motion he seized the sword in Michael’s belt and yanked it free before they had a chance to react. A fury and a disappointment like nothing had ever known before was burning in his chest, and he ignored the shocked exclamations all around as he strode forward. He gripped the hilt tightly in both hands and held the sword at low guard, facing the angels holding Crowley. “Get. The _fuck_. Away from him,” he gritted through clenched teeth. His heart was pounding so hard that he felt like he was going to be sick. There wasn’t enough air again. He was shaking with adrenaline and fear, but not for himself. If they hurt him...God help them, if they hurt him… 

“ _No!_ ” It was nearly a scream, and Crowley jerked in his captors’ grips. “Aziraphale no, no, don’t be stupid, they’ll destroy you!” He turned as best he could to the angels holding him on either side, speaking so quickly that he stumbled over his words. “Look, yes, alright, I tempted him, I deliberately lured him from the path, I- I tricked him with infernal devices. I did it, you got me!” His Adam’s Apple leapt as he swallowed convulsively. “Good work, well done. You’ve already thwarted the Enemy’s master plan. Go on, just kill me and leave, he doesn’t have anything more to do with this.” When no one moved or even looked at him, he thrashed desperately against the restraining hands. “Let _go_ of me, you bastards, let go let go-” He twisted and writhed like a mad thing, like the serpent he had once been, growling and spitting curses, to no avail. The two angels held him easily, with hands like iron, staring icily at Aziraphale and barely seeming to notice the demon’s struggles. He finally gave up, white-faced and gasping for breath, and looked at him. His russet hair had fallen into his face, and his beautiful golden eyes were wide and panicked. “No, don’t, not for me; please, please just go.” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, staring at him, pleading. He looked small and very afraid. “Angel. Aziraphale. _Please._ ” 

“Listen to him, Principality.” Michael’s crisp voice snapped through the air. “This is your last chance. Don’t squander it. Stand aside.” 

“I will not.” Aziraphale's voice sounded strange to his own ears, and the sword in his hands gave the words a certain ominous finality. He swallowed hard, throat paper-dry. He knew he had sealed his fate; he had opened a door that could not be closed and there was no turning back now. But truly, what was the alternative? He hadn’t come this far, hadn’t lived this long, to die without a fight, useless as it may be. And he would be _damned_ if he was going to leave Crowley alone to be destroyed. He swallowed again, looking at him, and now his throat was tight with suppressed grief. Oh, he was so very, very tired of people hurting Crowley. Never again, not while he drew breath. _Enough._ He shifted his grip on the sword, feeling his silver wedding ring scrape against the wire-wrapped hilt. 

They stared into each other’s eyes, blue to gold, and suddenly he was seeing Crowley’s face as it had looked all those millennia ago. He was seeing him for the very first time, standing there in his black robes with that long, long hair blowing in the wind atop the Wall on the edge of the world. So beautiful. So unexpected. A roguish smile quirking his mouth. “ _Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”_ Feeling that first strange lurch in his stomach as he looked at him, the feeling that would take so long to define or acknowledge – the first true drop of uncertainty that was destined to become a storm. 

Maybe it was natural to think of the Beginning, at the End. 

For a long, timeless interval there was no one else on that street as they just gazed at each other. The centuries seemed to spin past his eyes, memories pouring in thick and fast. So many countless years of…everything. Love and hope and sorrow and betrayal and redemption and trust, all rushing headlong towards this one moment, and he found that he wasn’t ready. It wasn’t fair. All those millennia dancing around each other, and so suddenly…they were out of time. 

So much time lost, gone forever. He supposed be had only himself to blame. 

_I’m sorry_ , he mouthed silently. _I love you._

Crowley exhaled, a sharp, harsh wordless sound, anguish written raw on his face. Crowley knew. He knew his heart, there was no hiding from him. He knew he wouldn’t leave. He said nothing, but a beam of love burst from him now like a lighthouse, transfixing Aziraphale in the chest with painful intensity and nearly taking him from his feet. Physical sensations of love varied as much as love itself, like a story that changed subtly with each telling. This love sang with pride and longing and shattering grief, all jumbled together and so strong that words died on Aziraphale's tongue. Everything else that he would say, every desperate proclamation of love and loyalty, passed unspoken between them as they stared at each other. What else could he possibly say, really? There were no words in any language that could encompass everything he meant to him. 

He tried to smile, and watched his demon’s expression sag in despair, his posture slump. The look on his face nearly broke him, but he held tight to his courage with all his strength. If this was his final stand, then he would at least make it a good one. He felt sorrow, but not a scrap of doubt. Crowley was the other half of his soul; they were cut from the same burning star, and he regretted nothing. 

“It’s alright, my love,” Aziraphale whispered. An odd sort of peace came over him, and now he did smile, sadly. “To the End, remember?”

His hands were steady on the hilt as he raised the sword into attack position. He reached far down into himself, towards that well of cool, clear power at his centre that he always tried so hard to ignore, to minimise and forget. He remembered it now. He touched it and drew it up in its entirety, letting it suffuse his being and fill his human skin like water; he let that vast, calm power settle over him like a mantle, and he felt Aziraphale the book collector recede into shadow. His skin began to glow with pure white light, as tangible and sharp as the blade he held. His face hardened, resolute, and he met the guarding angels' eyes without fear. This time when he spoke his voice was low and cold. A stranger’s voice. “I’m not going to ask again.” 

The other angels’ eyes flashed. “So be it,” Michael said, and nodded sharply. The dark-haired angel released Crowley’s hair and raised their weapon, glowing with fey light of their own. Their aura was brighter, sharper. More. They strode towards him, lips compressed into a grim line, and there was nothing but death in that face. The Angel of the Eastern Gate took a great breath and stepped out to meet them, glowing with holy fire, sword raised with true intent for the first and last time in his existence. 

Time seemed to stutter and slow to a crawl. The other blade slashed towards him with languid grace, and he saw his own arms lift his sword as if moving through molasses. 

And then.

A Voice spoke. 

It was not so much a voice as an impression of a voice. 

It came from nowhere and all around them, from the cracks of reality itself. It made no audible sound at all, but he _heard_ it with every fibre of his being nonetheless, resonating in his bones and blood and teeth like the gong of an enormous bell, shaking the ground beneath their feet with soundless thunder. It whispered gentle as a summer breeze. It roared like the sea in furious storm. It carried the blazing heat of a supernova and the freeze of vast uncharted space; it was warm sunlight layered over steel and the space between silences, and it was as inexorable as Time itself. 

It simply murmured, very, very quietly, 

**_ ENOUGH _**

Aziraphale staggered in shock and went to one knee. The angel swinging the sword at him blanched ashen and dropped it with a sharp cry, as if it had turned white-hot. It struck the ground with a surprisingly melodious _clang_. All the other angels gasped and fell to their knees as if struck a physical blow, clutching at their ears in something like pain. 

Everyone froze, breathless, waiting, while the air trembled and rang and rang with the silent echo of that one word. 

But the Voice did not Speak again. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Crowley blurted into the silence. He was kneeling in the road along with everyone else, wide-eyed. 

Michael shot him a startled look, as if they had forgotten he was there. “Shut up,” they snapped. They struggled to their feet, and at their glare the angels on either side of Crowley hurriedly stood, shakily, and seized his arms again. 

Aziraphale lunged back to his feet too, teeth clenched and sword held at ready, but the purpose had gone out of the other angels’ movements. No one else drew their sword, no one spoke; they hardly breathed. Looking around, he saw the same expression on the face of everyone there: the confusion of having witnessed something they did not understand. 

Michael’s face was chalk-pale, and under the irritation they looked deeply unsettled. There was confusion, and anger…and fear, as they looked at at him. A sheen of sweat gleamed on their brow that had not been there a moment earlier, and they were staring at him as if they had never seen him before. They opened their mouth to speak, then swallowed hard and looked at Sandalphon, who looked back in open disbelief, wide-eyed, skin tinged a sickly green pallor. Some kind of silent communication passed between the two of them; Aziraphale could see it in their eyes. 

Michael gave a curt nod to the two angels holding Crowley, who reluctantly let go of his arms. He shoved them off roughly, snarling, and Aziraphale hurried forward to stand in front of him with sword raised. He wanted to fling away the wretched thing and throw his arms around Crowley instead, but he didn’t dare let go of it just yet. His ears were still aching, his heart pounding almost painfully in his chest, and he had absolutely no idea what was going on. 

_Something_ big had happened, that much was certain; something in the very nature of the world had changed, and no one seemed to know what to do next. The mood on the street had shifted from one of imminent violence to one of tense bafflement as everyone just stood there and eyed each other uncertainly. Aziraphale shifted his grip on the sword hilt, fingers sliding in his own sweat. He was just himself again, to his immense relief- the shining power had gone out like a light when the Voice spoke. He had no desire to summon it again, but would if he had to. 

The dark haired angel whom he had been about to fight, the one who had threatened Crowley, glared daggers at him, slightly hunched and clutching at their wrist. The outline of the sword’s hilt stood out livid red on their palm like a brand. Aziraphale matched them glare for glare, not relaxing his grip on his own sword one bit. "Stay back," he said angrily, if somewhat unnecessarily. No one looked in the mood to attack anymore. 

Michael seemed at as much of a loss as everyone else. They cleared their throat uncomfortably and shuffled their feet in the silence, the gesture very uncharacteristically unsure. They flicked a hard glance at Aziraphale and the sword he held. He stared them down, unblinking, silently daring them to ask for it back. Michael pressed their lips together and looked none too happy about it, but turned their gaze away and said nothing. Instead they straightened and folded their hands in front of them again, with the air of one trying to get a handle on the situation. “Right." By some unspoken command the other three angels came over to stand on either side. They made a rather subdued picture now, compared to the cold arrogance of before.

"We will revisit this subject at a later date,” Michael said grimly. 

“This is not resolved,” Sandalphon added, sullen. Their face was still an unhealthy grey colour.

All four suddenly looked skyward in a single, coordinated motion, as if in response to a trumpet call that only they could hear. There was a blinding flash of light, and they were gone. 

A moment later the rain abruptly resumed as if it had never stopped, pattering on the asphalt around them. A car horn blared in the distance, a door slammed, and the breeze started up again. All the normal signs of a human world un-paused. Aziraphale and Crowley were alone on the street once more. 

Aziraphale waited for a long minute, tense as a bowstring, holding his breath and the sword with equal intensity as he looked about. There was no sign of the other angels, and everything looked ordinary enough now, but that could change in a blink. The rain slowly dampened his shirt and new waistcoat, and matted down his hair, but he barely noticed, so focused was he. He didn’t trust it. Every inch of him was still tingling with adrenaline and righteous fury, and he wasn’t about to let down his guard. 

A hand touched his back, making him flinch.

He shook his head without looking and clutched the sword tighter, breathing hard. No. If he let down his guard, even for an instant, they would come back and hurt his Crowley again, kill him, and that was unacceptable...

The hand settled on his shoulder, comforting. “Angel...they're gone.”

That gentle, familiar voice broke through the last of his resolve; the cold rage he had drawn around himself like armor cracked and fell away. He dropped the sword with a relieved cry and spun around to throw himself into Crowley’s waiting arms. The demon seized him around the chest and hugged him with desperate strength, and he didn't know whether to laugh or sob. Those wonderful, solid, warm arms held him so tight that it hurt and he couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t care- he was hugging him back just as tightly. 

“It’s alright. It’s alright. You’re ok,” Crowley rasped in his ear. His hands were clawed and digging into his back, like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. “Don’t _ever_ do that again, you hear me, you impossible creature?” His voice was rough and strained, and choked with what sounded like tears. “Why couldn’t you run? Don’t you _dare_ put yourself in danger for me, I can’t lose you, not again, I can’t-”

“Shut _up!”_ Aziraphale pushed him away and shook him, keeping a death grip on his clothing. In that moment he could have gladly punched him, but wasn’t going to let go of him for the world. “‘Kill me and leave’? How dare _you!_ ” He was startled to realize that tears were streaming down his own face, mingling with the rain; he sniffled and mopped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Did you even _think_ what that would do to- just- oh, you stupid, brave idiot.” He seized his face with both hands and kissed him, and Crowley kissed him back, and it became almost like a fight to see who could kiss who the hardest, who could clutch the tightest. Aziraphale finally just held him and sobbed in helpless relief. “Don’t you dare go where I can’t follow,” he cried, beside himself.

“Shhhh, don’t cry, s'okay. It’s okay.” Crowley’s chest was still heaving as if struggling for breath, but his hands were gentle now as he stroked his damp hair and back. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t do that again.” 

Aziraphale managed a nod. “Too right you won’t,” he choked out. "I made a promise. Against anyone and everything, understand?" 

"Yeah," Crowley whispered. “Yeah.” His arms were strangling-tight around him. The rain was coming down harder, soaking them both through and turning Aziraphale's white dress shirt translucent. 

That hideous helpless feeling still churned in his stomach, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I couldn’t stop them,” he said, in a bare whisper. “They nearly killed you right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop them.” He was still shaking like a leaf, with adrenaline and anger and goodness-knew-what-else. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It wouldn’t do to fall to pieces. “I’m sorry I yelled, love,” he murmured now, and laid his cheek against his husband's shoulder. His perfect, familiar shoulder in its familiar black jacket, with the slight groove where his head always fit just so. He slid his arms up around his neck and sighed. 

Crowley held him, rocking him side to side, though he was none too steady himself. “It’s okay, my darling,” he whispered in his ear, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. It was the first time he’d ever called him that. He raised his head and looked at him. 

Crowley’s golden eyes were wet and red-rimmed, but tender as he brushed his tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. “My darling,” he said again. “Light of my life, my angel. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He rested his forehead against Aziraphale's and took both his hands, holding them against his lips. “I made a promise too," he said quietly. "I'll never let anyone hurt you. No matter what. I’ll die first.” 

“No one is going to die,” Aziraphale said fiercely. He swiped at his face again, for all the good it would do in the pouring rain like this. “No one. I won’t allow it.” 

Crowley kissed him and hugged him close. “I know you won't. Let me take you home.” He glanced around, then bent and scooped up a brown-wrapped package from the street, and it took Aziraphale a moment to remember that it was the book he had purchased earlier. It was soggy now, but worrying about that couldn’t have been further from his mind. They could always miracle it clean later. He took it with a nod and tucked it under his arm. After a moment of hesitation he reached down and gingerly picked up the fallen sword as well, though he hated to even look at the dratted thing.

“Just in case,” he murmured to himself. 

Holding tight to each other, Crowley's arm a reassuring warm presence around his shoulders, they made their way down the street towards the car. Towards home. 

* * *


	10. Shared Fire

* * *

By the time they finally got to the Bentley they were soaked through. They made the short, rainy drive home in silence, Aziraphale sitting with one hand on the gleaming sword laid across his lap, and the other hand clutching Crowley’s. His nerves were still frayed and humming, and he remained on high alert as they exited the car and walked into the house together. Crowley swiftly shut and locked the door, then just leaned his forehead against it with his eyes closed, still holding tight to his hand. Aziraphale knew exactly how he felt. A locked door was about as useful as a paper shield against any supernatural attack, but regardless it was immeasurably comforting to have a solid barrier between them and the world. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.” 

Crowley didn’t respond, or let go of his hand. He had that haunted air about him again, the one he had worn like a cloak for days after rescuing him from Hastur. It physically hurt to see. 

“We’re alright. Come here, love.” He tugged at his hand, gently but insistently pulling him into a standing position to face him, and the demon finally looked up. His eyes were sunken and weary.

“Angel, I-” 

“Shh.” He put a finger across Crowley’s lips, then peeled him out of his wet black jacket and hung it on the coatrack. A swift miracle removed the water from both their clothing, leaving them warm and dry. He knelt down and carefully removed his husband’s shoes, then his own, setting them in a neat row on the little wooden shoe rack by the door. Without saying a word he led him by the hand through the house, into their sitting room, still clutching the sword in his other hand. He leaned the weapon against the wall next to his desk; it was still easily accessible there, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at the damn thing. 

He turned his back on it and sat Crowley down on the sofa. He was far too wired up to sit, so he simply faced his husband and took him gently by the shoulders. 

“Now,” he said. “Did they hurt you, darling? Tell me the truth.” He felt around on Crowley’s chest as he spoke, running his hand down to his waist. He hadn’t _seen_ them stab him, and he seemed whole and uninjured, but with everything that had happened he could scarcely trust his own eyes at the moment. He needed to be certain. His throat was still tight with anxiety and echoes of near-grief, and he couldn’t relax just yet. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley said. “Angel, you were there, you saw, you stopped them before they could hurt me…” 

Aziraphale ignored him, lifting his chin to peer into his eyes and running his hands over his head, feeling at his skull with his fingertips. No visible concussion, at any rate. Crowley just sat there without protesting, watching him with those shadowed eyes and occasionally reaching up to touch his face. Aziraphale kissed his palm before grasping his arm to turn him around, and Crowley winced at his touch. Just a tiny twitch, but he knew him far too well to miss it. 

“What- oh, I knew it! Show me." When the demon didn’t move, he took his hand and, pinching fabric between thumb and forefinger, gingerly pulled up his shirt sleeve, afraid of what he would find. His breath caught, and he stopped. 

The pale skin was swollen and mottled dark purple, from the wrists to halfway up his forearms. Distinctly finger-shaped marks marred his arms all the way up to above his elbows. As if the angels’ hands had been made of steel, not flesh. A quick examination revealed that the other arm was just as bad. 

“They were very strong,” Crowley said, to his horrified expression. “It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks.” 

A small, wordless noise of anguish escaped him. He couldn’t bear to see those horrible bruises on him for one second longer. Ever so carefully, as if they were made of glass, he took each hand between his own and gently kissed along his wrists, brushing his mouth over each dark splotch. The bruises shrank away and vanished one by one, until the skin was smooth and unmarked again. Once finished he stroked at his arms, helplessly wishing there was something he could say, something that would erase the memory as well as the injury.

Crowley sighed and cupped his face between his hands, yellow eyes intent. “Thank you.” 

Guilt twisted in Aziraphale’s chest, and he suddenly couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m – so sorry. I’m so very sorry my people did that to you. I can’t even…” his voice choked in his throat, and he just shook his head, distraught. He knew that Management had tried to kill _him_ after Armageddon, of course, but seeing them in action drove it home in a new and visceral way. And they had never, ever tried to harm Crowley directly before. Somehow, foolishly, he had never thought that they would try. Anger blended with disappointment, and an unmistakable soul-deep sadness. He had hoped for better from the people he had worked for all his life, even after everything. 

Crowley forced his face back up to look at him. He looked so very tired, and it made his heart ache. “It wasn’t your fault, angel. Those _aren’t_ your people, any more than Hastur was mine. You are nothing like them,” he said fiercely. “I’m the one who should apologize to you. I promised to protect you, and I wasn’t able to do a damn thing. I was useless.” His voice cracked on the last word, thick with self-loathing. His hands on his cheeks were tender but nearly vibrating with hectic energy, his normal lively vitality marred by a strained edge. Aziraphale hated it. He hated to see him like that. He smoothed his damp red hair back from his forehead, then pulled him to his feet, into his arms, and just hugged him. 

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured. “You’ve protected me so many times already. Eventually it has to go both ways, don’t you think?”

“Nghh.” Crowley made a skeptical sound, like he didn’t want to agree but had no good argument against it. His arms came up to encircle him too, and he lay his cheek against his hair, “You were really going to fight all those angels by yourself," he muttered. “You insane little…” 

Aziraphale squeezed him tighter, silencing him. “Hush. Of course I was. You really thought I would just run off and leave you?” He couldn’t help but let some of the hurt show in his voice. 

Crowley didn’t move for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “No.” He slid his arms up to clutch his shoulders, and kissed his head. “Of course not, angel. I know you wouldn’t. Sorry.” 

“Too right. I’ve no interest in a world without you in it. I’m not letting them take you away.” He felt a surge of that same burning determination as he spoke, and it made him feel a bit less helpless.

“But let’s not worry about any of that that right now, alright?” He gave his head a little shake and smiled up at him. “We’re home, and safe, and that’s all that matters. No one else exists. Let me- let me make you some tea, darling,” he said eagerly. Tea always helped. Tea was something to do when you didn’t know what else to do. He wiped at his suddenly wet cheek again and went to move away, but Crowley captured his hands and stopped him. 

“Later,” he said. 

Then Crowley’s mouth was covering his, abruptly reminding him that there were other helpful and healing things besides tea.

Crowley gripped him firmly by the waistcoat lapels with both hands and pulled him up onto his toes to kiss him better. It started tender and swiftly grew into something hungry and insistent, and Aziraphale found himself being pushed back, heedless of his surroundings, until they fetched up hard against the antique rolltop desk by the window. It jostled and sent pens rolling and clattering everywhere; a large inkwell tipped over with a clunk and something glass shattered on the floor, but neither of them bothered to look. Aziraphale groped behind him with both hands to grip at the edge of the desk, bracing against it to avoid falling over, and gave back heat for heat. Wood creaked loudly in protest. Cool liquid ink seeped over his fingers and dripped onto the floorboards as Crowley now clamped an iron hold around his waist with one arm and pulled them chest to chest, still hauling him up to his mouth by the front of his clothes. A moment later the waistcoat finally gave way with a loud ripping of seams, and then that arm was around his shoulders instead and bending him dramatically backwards over the desk. Crowley held him wrapped in both arms and kissed him desperately, passionately, like some dashing swain from a lurid romance novel cover, the ones in the very back area of his old bookshop that always felt too scandalous to read (yet too fascinating to dispose of). Aziraphale made a small eager sound, and Crowley slipped his tongue into his mouth and deepened the kiss. He kissed him like he was dying of thirst and his lips the only water for miles. 

Suddenly all Aziraphale could think about was how close he had come to losing him. Again. His beautiful, kind, brave, utterly unique demon, a demon who loved humans – and him, against all odds. Crowley gave him courage deeper than anything he had ever known before, a strength born of knowing that he loved him for exactly who he was. There had never been any angel or demon like him before, would probably never be again, and the other angels had nearly _destroyed_ him. They’d set him to be exterminated like- like a rat. Like he was nothing. Like he was worthless. They had _no right_.

As he kissed his husband that horrid feeling of _out of time_ crashed in upon him like an anvil, and he could barely stand it. It was enough to drive him just a little bit mad. Not half an hour ago he had thought he would never kiss him ever again, and yet here he was with yet another second chance. Every single second was precious. He needed to wrap himself up in his Crowley, the whole beautiful, disastrous, impulsive mess of him, and show him how utterly wonderful he was before it was too late. 

He reached up and buried his ink-stained hands in Crowley’s hair, the hair still scorched ragged from that night at the warehouse, ragged from saving his life. He pulled his head back and kissed his neck with desperate hunger, cupping his face with the other hand and leaving inky finger tracks down his cheek and throat. Crowley moaned, and now it was suddenly he who was being pushed haphazardly backwards, back until he slammed against the built-in bookshelves of the opposite wall. Aziraphale smoothed both hands down his chest, trailing dark smears on his grey shirt, all the way down to where a large bulge was already straining against the demon’s jeans. He stroked it lovingly, feeling himself respond in kind, then gazed into the gold eyes and tugged at his belt. “Take these off, love,” he whispered. 

He had never seen clothing removed that quickly without magic before. In no time at all Crowley was naked from the waist down, arms about his neck, practically climbing him as he scrambled to wrap his legs around his waist. Aziraphale picked him bodily up and pinned him to the wall with a kiss. His weight presented no difficulty, not when he let himself remember that it shouldn’t. The corded muscles of his thighs were hard under his hands, his lean body was suddenly warm and intoxicating against his groin - _oh_. At some point he had apparently miracled away his own trousers and underwear without even realizing it. Or maybe Crowley had done it. It was sometimes difficult to tell. 

“Fuck. Come here,” Crowley gasped. He reached one arm up to grasp at the shelf behind him, holding himself up while he fumbled one-handed between them, taking hold of him and moving him into position. Then those long legs were clenching into a stranglehold, knees drawing up, heels pressed against the small of his back, and before Aziraphale quite knew what was happening they were slotted together against the bookshelf and frantically rutting as if it was the last thing they would ever do. 

Crowley’s arms and legs were fever-warm around him, his erection pressed hard between them, his lips soft and his tongue wet: delicious and wanton and forbidden. The very picture of everything he wasn’t supposed to enjoy. Aziraphale kissed him fiercely as he thrust, moaning in ecstasy, and dared heaven to watch. Let them see, and judge, and condemn; to _Hell_ with them all! He still burned with rage and grief; he channeled that burning into hot passion and made love to his husband with all his heart, in open defiance of everyone and everything that might stop him. In defiance of everything he had ever been told. He grabbed at a shelf with careless strength to anchor himself, barely noticing as the wood cracked and buckled under his hand, sending books and knickknacks cascading down around them. He only thrust harder, panting, one arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist to keep him secure as he pushed up and into him, and his wordless cries of raw pleasure were the most lovely thing he had ever heard. Oh, how he loved the noises Crowley made when he topped him. He always gazed at him in such awestruck disbelief, just like he was doing now. His golden eyes were wide and unguarded, his face a riot of ink smears and unfettered emotion, the same unfettered emotion he could feel pouring from him in a torrent. It was so very easy to know what he liked with his entire face and heart open like a book before him.

"That’s it, my love,” he whispered, and tightened his arm around him. “You deserve this. You deserve everything in the world. You are perfect, and lovely, and sweet. You- _mmmh_ , feel exquisite, and I am the luckiest person alive to get to have you.” He punctuated every whisper with a push of his hips, and the demon’s emotions responded as if each word was a physical touch. 

Aziraphale thrust hard, and when he judged him ready, whispered tenderly in his ear: “Come for me, my darling.” 

Crowley did, almost violently. His ebony-black wings burst from his shoulders as he shuddered and jerked in his arms, pushing them both away from the wall and nearly knocking them over. Aziraphale stumbled back and went to a knee, holding onto him for dear life. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley groaned, fingers digging into his shoulders. He wrapped the wings around him, lighter and softer than any blanket. “Sorry, angel.” 

"Don't be sorry,” he murmured back. He held him as tightly as he could without hurting him, still desperate, heart thundering. He kissed him and slowly eased down to kneel on the area rug, Crowley in his lap, both breathing hard. “I love your wings, my dear.” He ran a hand through the glossy feathers, and Crowley shuddered afresh with face pressed against his neck. “So beautiful. So perfect.” He also loved to see him lose control like that. He was usually the first to release his wings during sex, so it was always a bit of a triumph to reverse the situation. 

“Mmm.” Crowley had his breath back and was kissing him all over the face and neck. He bit at his jaw and licked him, slowly. “I am going to make love to you,” he said, with quiet determination. “Just give me a couple minutes.” 

Aziraphale did not want to wait for a couple minutes. Without thinking he tried something he had never done before – in his elated state it never even occurred to him to question if it was possible. He reached down, to cup between Crowley’s legs…and re-set biology. Crowley jerked his head up and frowned at him, puzzled, mouth agape. “Wha- what was- oh, oh _shit_.” 

He didn’t need to ask him what he meant- they could both feel him swelling under his hand, growing hard again. Crowley stared down at himself, slack-jawed, comically surprised, and then he was practically throwing himself at him. “Clothes. Off. Now,” he growled. He tore at Aziraphale’s poor battered waistcoat as if it was on fire, ripping the fabric and sending buttons clattering across the floorboards, and for once Aziraphale did not give half a damn about his clothing. 

“Wow. What the hell? I didn’t know you could do that,” Crowley panted as he yanked his own torn shirt off and flung it away. 

“Neither did I. Hurry up!”

Finally every irritating scrap between them was removed. With his last coherent thought Aziraphale miracled a couple of thick blankets from their bedroom and rolled them beneath him...then Crowley’s hands were on him, shoving him flat on his back, and there was no need to think anymore. 

Crowley crawled atop him with prowling grace, looming over him with raven wings spread wide, wide as the sky, all taut muscles and hunched shoulders and burning golden eyes boring into his own. He still bore a smudged black handprint across his angular face, lending him a savage cast. For a moment Aziraphale could only lie there and stare, stunned breathless by the sight of him in all his glory. Stars, but he was beautiful enough to die for. _Beautiful_ , and full of lovely shifting light and shadows that gave depth and dimension to his entire world. Once upon a time he would have shied away from those shadows, but he saw now that Crowley burned all the brighter for them, the edges of that light defined and sharpened. Irreplaceably perfect. 

He reached up to touch his cheek. “My Anthony,” he whispered. “Come here.” 

Crowley cupped his chin and bent to kiss him; Aziraphale buried his hands in those black feathers and pulled him down to him with a moan. 

Crowley slid warm hands under his hips and took him like a storm. He unleashed all the glorious fiery passion and pent-up emotion that he had sensed from him earlier, using his wings for leverage, at times nearly lifting them both off the floor with the force of his heaving thrusts. Aziraphale clung tight and encouraged him, begging him to keep going, and gave himself as readily and willingly as Crowley had a minute earlier. “Faster, love,” he gasped, and Crowley obliged, grunting with effort. Hands gripping with just the right amount of strength and biting his neck exactly the way he liked. Layering pleasure on top of pleasure, heat upon heat, until it felt like the whole world caught fire. 

Crowley suddenly faltered and slowed to a stop. “W- wait,” he said, breathless, sweating. His face was flushed with hectic colour, pupils expanded nearly to full circles. “I- I need to slow down. I'm not going to last.” 

Aziraphale ran his hands through his hair, over his head, stroking down his back and up both wings, and thrilled at the way Crowley whimpered and shut his eyes tight. “I don’t need you to last, my love. I need you to take me as fast as you like, until you lose control. Then again. And again.” 

A shiver ran through the demon from head to toe, rippling down his wings with a shimmer like light on the water. He caught up Aziraphale’s wrists in hands that were strong but gentle, never rough even in the midst of passion, and pinned them to the ground. He put his mouth on his throat and redoubled his pace with breath hot on his skin, teeth just barely gripping. They both cried out in turn as he thrust and panted, groaning each other’s names again and again between breaths, until finally they did not so much tip over the edge as were flung over it together. Crowley released his wrists and wrapped his arms around him, catching and holding him safe. Just as he had always been there to catch him; his rock, his anchor. His true family, in the way the other angels had never been. 

They found that they were unwilling to move, after, so they didn’t. Crowley summoned more blankets, and pillows from their bed, and they just stayed tangled up on the floor together. As soon as they caught their breath he reached for him again. Aziraphale repeated his newfound trick, and they tore into each other with just as much enthusiasm as before. 

They soon spent the worst of their furious energy, and their lovemaking transmuted then into something much softer, gentler, but just as eager. At one point Crowley curled up behind Aziraphale and simply pressed against him. Rubbing himself slick and warm against his thighs, between them, quaking with the slow intensity of each push of his hips. Panting against the back of his neck, whispering _my darling angel_ with all the obvious joy of a new thing, tenderly stroking his chest and doing his best to make them both forget the strain of the day. Aziraphale took his hand and moved it to a more strategic spot. “Here, love,” he murmured, and things only improved exponentially from there **.**

The evening passed in a blur; he couldn’t have said how long they stayed there. Time didn’t matter. As long as they were together neither of them had to think about what had happened, only feel - and feel they did with utter abandon, full of relief and the exhilarated defiance of two people who have cheated certain death. It was less coitus than a constant stream of reassurance, and they both soaked it up. They did whatever they wanted to each other, without hesitation or restraint, and each welcomed it all with open arms. 

Eventually they simply wore themselves out. The human body can only withstand so much, even when inhabited by celestial beings, and Crowley fell asleep first in the sweat-dampened, passion-tangled pile of blankets on the floor. Aziraphale lay curled on his side with him wrapped tight in his arms, one hand clasped in his own, feeling his breathing soften and even out. Gently kissing the back of his neck and hair, slowly inhaling his musky smell, treasuring every rise and fall of his chest as he slowly drifted off.

He had every intention to stay awake, to keep watch over him. But in the end weariness won out and a deep sleep claimed him as well. 

* * *


	11. Next Steps

When Aziraphale woke again, it was to the lovely sensation of fingers running through his hair.

He slowly opened his eyes- then blinked a few times, disoriented. It was pitch dark, but he could tell that he was lying cradled in Crowley’s warm lap and wrapped in blankets. The demon was hunched over him with arms around his waist and shoulders, forehead pressed to forehead, holding him close as he stroked his hair. His breathing was a feather-brush against his cheek, and he was giving off a quiet hum of emotion that was as comforting as all the rest put together. 

Aziraphale stirred and made a quiet sound, and Crowley raised his head. As he straightened up the darkness lifted too, revealing that they had been wrapped in his velvety night-black wings. Lamplight flooded in now as he shifted his shoulders and stretched them out, illuminating golden eyes looking intently down at him, gleaming.

His copper hair was still mussed every which way, and he still bore smeared ink marks all over his face and neck, but the sweat had dried on his skin. The clean, beautiful lines of his features looked even more lovely than usual, dim light softening the angles and illuminating the high cheekbones as he smiled. Best of all, the frenetic energy had finally left his eyes, and it was again the easy smile that had become so familiar. “Hey, angel.” 

That smile was as restorative as hot tea, and Aziraphale smiled back, relieved, feeling similarly at peace. “Hello, my dear.” He tried to brush away a bit of white feather stuck to his collarbone, and in doing so realized his own hands were still stained with ink. He gave up trying to clean him up and settled for just smiling up at him. “What time is it?” 

Crowley furled away the wings and twisted briefly to glance over his shoulder, towards the clock on the mantelpiece. “Near midnight.” 

"Good Lord.” They had been here for _hours_. No wonder he felt so stiff and spent. Especially spent. His mouth felt as dry as baked sand, and he was suddenly desperately thirsty. He swallowed and licked his lips, grimacing in distaste. 

“Here.” Crowley was suddenly holding a glass of water, offering it to him with a knowing smirk. 

He struggled up onto one elbow and accepted it with a nod of gratitude. As he gulped down the cool water he took the opportunity to look around. 

There was only the one burning lamp in the far corner, but it was enough light to see that the sitting room had been thoroughly wrecked. The little side table was overturned; one set of wall shelving was a crumbled avalanche of wood and books; papers and knickknacks were flung about as if caught in a high wind. His favourite tartan easy chair by the fireplace had been tipped over. Possibly most alarmingly, their television screen had a large spiderwebbed crack in it, as if struck with a baseball bat. Even the sofa had been pushed out of place. Feathers of both colours were scattered over absolutely everything. 

“Oh. Oh dear. Oops?” He put a hand over his mouth and looked guiltily up at Crowley, who only chuckled and took the empty water glass from him, then pulled him back down into his lap. 

“Yeah. Oops is right. Don’t worry; we can fix it later." The demon gave his hair another comb and adjusted the blanket, tugging it up a bit more over his chest. He sobered and looked intently down at him. “You okay?” He had thoroughly checked every inch of his body already, and then some, but still touched his face impulsively as if to reassure himself. Apparently that wasn’t quite enough, because he bent over again and pressed their lips together in a gentle kiss. 

“Mm. Perfectly okay," the angel replied. "Are you?” 

Crowley shrugged, just a quick jerk of one shoulder. “Ah, you know. I’m here with you. I’m fine." He did look fine, too. Tired, but a normal, simple tired now, not the strained exhaustion of before. He no longer looked haunted. He looked a proper mess, actually, but a lovely, sexy kind of mess. 

Aziraphale smiled and touched his cheek, using a small miracle to clean the ink from his face. “There. You don’t look quite so madcap now.” He banished the stains from his own hands with a quick thought and folded them over his stomach, sighing a relieved sigh. “Well. We have quite a knack for surviving impossible situations, don’t we?” 

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, that's one way to put it. One could also say that we attract trouble like a lightning rod.” He rubbed at his left wrist, as if feeling the ghost of those terrible bruises, and a shadow passed over his face. “I never wanted you to have to fight. Especially not for me.” 

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped, my dear,” Aziraphale replied gently. He slid a hand up and around his neck, forcing him to look at his face. “I fell in love with you and I’m simply _not_ giving you up.” He wiggled in his lap, getting a bit more settled. They had piled so many blankets down that the floor was surprisingly comfortable, naked or no. “At any rate, I didn’t have to fight. _She_ stopped me, didn’t She.”

He didn’t entirely know what to make of that. He wasn’t sure what to make of anything that had happened, or whether it boded good or ill ahead. Quite frankly, he was tired of trying to puzzle it out, tired of dramatic upheavals and near-escapes, and was content to simply enjoy his husband. His bare lap felt wonderful under his back and head, and that was important. His hands were warm and comforting, one in his hair and one resting on his chest, and that was even more important. All else, for the moment, was noise. 

“Hm. You know, I don’t think she stopped _you_ , exactly,” Crowley was saying, brow furrowed in thought as he stared into space. The fingers in his hair massaged idly at his scalp, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but let out a small moan of pleasure. It felt absolutely divine. Crowley glanced down at the sound, smiling, and started massaging in earnest. “Did it hurt you? When…She spoke?” 

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said slowly. It was impossible to forget; he knew he would remember that stunning, crystallized moment for the rest of his life. “No, it didn’t hurt.” He gave himself a shake and re-focused on the head massage. “Mmmh, oh, a little lower, darling. Perfect. No, I was- startled, but that was all.” 

Crowley nodded sagely. “Thought so. But you saw the others. They were a damn sight more than startled. They didn’t look so good, afterwards, did they?” There was a note of vicious satisfaction in his voice. “Seems more like She stopped _them_. And not gently.” 

They both sat there in silence for a minute, absorbing the implications of this. 

Crowley finally sighed, an exasperated sound. “It’s about bloody _time_. The cryptic, bloody showboating bas-” 

Aziraphale reached up in alarm and hurriedly yanked him down into a kiss, stopping his reckless mouth before he could blaspheme too badly. The last thing they needed was for his idiot husband to get smote by a bolt of lightning or something, _now_ , after all that trouble! Crowley made a kind of muffled squawking protest, but Aziraphale only tightened his grip on his hair and shoved his tongue into his mouth until he shut up and stopped struggling. 

“Well…at- at any rate,” Crowley said dazedly, when they finally came up for air again. His hair was even more disheveled now. “It seems like She isn't angry at us, eh?” 

“I suppose so,” he replied cautiously. “I certainly hope so. Ineffable, you know. But it did seem that way. If I had to guess, I would say we are in the clear for now.” He so desperately, achingly wanted to believe it was true. “I just...don’t know why She would have waited so long to intervene. Do you?”

Crowley snorted again. “You’re asking _me_? That’s more your area, isn’t it, angel? Interpreting the divine Will?”

Aziraphale blew out a gusty breath and shook his head. “Hardly. Even when I lived up there I barely had any idea what was going on.”

“Yeahhh, that makes two of us.” Crowley grunted pensively, and resumed massaging his head. “Those bastards might still crop up again, depending. You heard Archangel Dickwad. They’re furious. And angels are known for being stubborn.” He took the edge off his words with a playful tweak of his nose, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“No more than demons. We'll deal with that as it comes, if it comes. _Together,_ like sane people." He shot a stern look up at him, and took his hand where it lay on his chest, holding it close. “ _No_ more trying to sacrifice yourself, or any of that nonsense, my love. You promised.”

“I guess I did.” Crowley smiled down at him again, but there was a sad edge to it now. He jerked his chin towards the sword leaning against the wall near the desk, with the air of one changing the subject. “What are you gonna do about that?” The blade gleamed with its own faint silvery light, clearly visible even all the way across the room, even sitting in a pool of shadow. It was one of very few things that had not been knocked over. Even in their reckless passion, they had instinctively avoided it.

“Oh.” Aziraphale eyed it nervously, but answered without hesitation. “I’m keeping it. It will come in handy if anyone _does_ get…exceptionally unreasonable.” The thought put a cold, dark shiver in his gut, so he moved Crowley’s warm hand from his chest and held it against his cheek. “Besides, the last time I let a sword like that out of my sight, it didn’t exactly end all that well, did it?”

Crowley bent to kiss his forehead, just a quick affectionate peck. “Ah...I dunno.” There was a smile in his voice. “Could’ve turned out worse, all things considered. But it’s in the safest possible hands with you. I can’t imagine better.” He caught up his left hand and kissed the inside of the wrist, then the palm, working his way up. “Besides, it’ll lend some weight to your moral argument,” he mumbled slyly.

“Ha ha.” Aziraphale looked over at the sword again and frowned. He wasn’t at all keen on the thought of wielding it, and confided something that had been worrying him. “Although, I’m not entirely confident I even have the right to use it.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Crowley was kissing his fingers now, slowly, one by one, eyes closed. His lips were warm. He planted a final kiss on his silver wedding ring and pressed his face into the palm with a deep sigh. “Mm. Like I said. Best possible hands. My beautiful, dangerous, magnificent angel.” 

“Oh, you.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm, and flapped a dismissive hand. He looked back up into Crowley’s gold eyes and brushed a thumb against his chin. “Is it alright if we forget about all this for a while, darling?" he asked softly. "I nearly lost you today.” His throat still tightened at the words, but he swallowed hard and forged ahead. “Right now I don’t want to think about the future or what might happen. I just want to enjoy being with my favourite person. I want to make every single moment with you as remarkable as possible.”

“Sure. I think we can manage that.” Crowley stroked his hair again, and his mouth curved into a crooked grin. “Every moment with you is always remarkable.”

“Oh, _hush,_ you.”

“Actually, on that note, there _is_ something I’ve been wanting to do. And since I don’t know if I’ll get another chance...” Crowley gave his hand a final light kiss, then slid his own hands under him and nudged him gently off his lap, lifting him into a sitting position. He got to his feet with sinuous ease and stretched, running his hands through his hair, making the lamplight do _fascinating_ things to his body and providing a very lovely eye-level view. A languid beckoning gesture pulled his plain black dressing gown out of thin air, which he tied swiftly around himself. He summoned Aziraphale’s quilted white satin one as well and handed it to him. “Put that on.” 

“Er, alright.” Aziraphale sat and watched curiously as he padded barefoot across the room, skirting broken glass and other wreckage, and began browsing through their record collection in the cabinet next to the shattered television. “Why?” The word came out somewhat petulant. He had been enjoying the sight of Crowley just the way he was. 

“Because.” Crowley selected a record, blew off the dust, then removed it from its sleeve and set it carefully in the miraculously-unharmed record player. “I want to dance with you, and it would look kind of stupid to do it naked.” He moved the needle into place and soft music began to fill the room: simple guitar instrumentals and mellow vocals, certainly _not_ one of Aziraphale’s collection.

“ _Sometimes I feel so happy...sometimes I feel so sad..."_

One of Crowley's treasured be-bop favourites, then, the ones that he usually listened to on his iPod.

Aziraphale blinked at him in bemused surprise. “You want to...dance? Now?” 

"Why not?" Crowley paused to repair the damaged television screen with a snap of his fingers, then sauntered back over and stood there facing him, one hand on hip and eyebrow raised. “Unless m'lord has a previous engagement?” He put an arm behind his back and bowed low to him with gallant over-formality, offering his hand with a twirling flick of the wrist – as if he stood in the court of King George IV himself instead of in the dimly-lit shambles of their sitting room. The elaborate pose looked completely ridiculous with his skinny legs protruding from the black dressing gown, bare to the knee, red hair still mussed every which way, and Aziraphale had to cover his mouth to swallow a laugh. Only his Crowley could pull off such a thing and somehow manage to look so dashing. He didn’t reply for a moment and just sat there cross-legged, content to let him wait while he dreamily admired him. The singer on the record was crooning something about _mountaintops_ and _blue eyes_ , and the calm, pleasant melody was surprisingly soothing and familiar.

After a beat or two Crowley craned his neck to look up at him and wiggled his fingers, hand still outstretched. “C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Ridiculous serpent.” Aziraphale smiled, took his hand, and let himself be pulled up off the floor. 

Crowley kicked their pile of blankets and pillows away with one bare foot, then took him by the hips and tugged him close. He looked him over and stroked both hands slowly up and down his waist with obvious enjoyment, a quiet smile playing about his lips. “Forget about everything and everyone else for a while,” he said, “and just dance with me, angel. In all our years we’ve never once danced together, have we? It’s about time we fixed that.” 

“That’s true. Until very recently it would have been quite the scandal.” 

“Mm. I certainly wouldn’t want to cause a _scandal_ , would I,” Crowley said, deadpan. His hands were still wandering. “Completely unprecedented, that.” 

“Mmmhmmm, yes, completely,” Aziraphale agreed, equally seriously, tucking away a smile. He laughed then and shook his head, feeling suddenly awkward. “I’m afraid I haven’t danced in centuries, and then only the gavotte. I have no idea how.” 

“Well then, allow me to _educate_ you.” Crowley whispered it in his ear and kissed him lightly on the neck, making the phrase sound _far_ more scandalous than it was and sending a pleasant shiver through him. From the faint smirk on Crowley’s lips, he knew exactly what he was doing. “It’s easy,” he continued in a more normal tone. “Most of modern slow dancing is just swaying; none of that complicated fancy footwork from the past to worry about. Hold out your arm to the side like this.” 

Aziraphale did so. Crowley took his hand and gently guided their fingers together, the callused gardener’s palm rough against his soft one, and slid his other hand around to press the small of his back. “There you go,” Crowley murmured, and took a long, unhurried moment to kiss him again. “Now you hold on to me too, and we just kind of…rock.” 

Aziraphale put his other arm around him and closed his eyes, smiling, and they rocked side to side in place to the strumming guitars for a while. It _was_ easy after all. It also felt a bit silly, but he didn’t mind. Some things were worth feeling silly for. Crowley’s hand was warm and steady, his stubbled cheek lightly brushing against his own, his slim body so familiar in his arms. The demon was emitting a soft, constant pulse of love and contentment, and with his eyes closed Aziraphale could easily imagine they were somewhere else entirely, somewhere with no worries for the future at all. It was a perfect excuse to hold him and do nothing else. 

“We should have done this years ago,” he said at last. He spoke as quietly as he could, not wanting to disrupt the perfect, fragile moment. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said in his ear, equally quietly, and only pulled him in tighter. “Bit of a theme with us, isn’t it.”

“At least we’re consistent.”

“Yup. But better late than never, right?” Without warning, Crowley suddenly spun them both around and dipped him dramatically back. 

Aziraphale yelped at the sudden drop and clutched at him in a panic. “Crowley! Watch-"

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Crowley said. His arm was firm around his waist as he pulled him back up with a slight grunt, and began rocking slowly in place again. He was grinning broadly now, and breathing just a little harder. “I’ve always wanted to try that,” he admitted. He kissed the angel’s hand and held it close against his chest, rubbing lightly with his thumb. 

“Haven’t you ever?” Aziraphale was a tad breathless as well, albeit for a different reason. 

A scoff. “Nah. You need a dancing partner to dip someone,” he replied. 

“And you never… danced with anyone?” he asked skeptically. “Oh, come now. I know for a fact that you went to evening parties a lot back in the grand old formal days. You can’t expect me to believe that no one ever wanted to dance with you then.” The idea seemed unthinkable, insulting even. He had seen Crowley in some of his fancier attires, back in the years of court functions and garden parties, and...whew. He had cut such a striking figure in his close-tailored dark coats and breeches (he had always favoured tight breeches), so very handsome no matter the fashion, and so very off-limits. 

It had always left him terribly flustered without quite knowing why. 

“For your information,” Crowley retorted, “ _I_ didn’t want to dance with _them_.” He gave him a gentle push outward and turned him slowly on the spot, hand overhead, before reeling him back in. “What could I possibly have to say to any of them?” 

“Oh, come now. Not all humans are as tiresome as all that.” 

“Not all, no, but lots are. And then there were all those bloody mothers hovering around, like- like chickenhawks. Lurking. Just eyeing me.” His voice took on a high, mocking falsetto. “’ _Oh_ , Mr. Crowley! Why don’t you have a dance with my daughter, she’d be _ever_ so pleased to make your acquaintance, and have you _seen_ the size of her- inheritance.’” A roll of his eyes. “It was awkward at best. I wasn’t about to encourage any of them, so I limited my dancing.”

“Oh. I see.” Surprised, and secretly very pleased, he slid his arm a bit further up Crowley’s back and rested his chin on his shoulder. “Yes, they _could_ be rather aggressive, couldn’t they?” Matchmaker mothers were the bane of every confirmed bachelor in those days, and of course Crowley had been fending off advances at every turn. He should have known. Naturally. He felt an unexpected flare of nearly feral possessiveness at the thought, and clutched him tighter. He was _his_. No one, be they self-righteous angel or eligible unmarried human, was ever going to take him away. 

“Besides,” Crowley continued, matter of factly, as if were the most obvious thing in the world. “None of them were _you_.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite manage a response to that, so he just hid a giddy smile against his neck for a few seconds while he tried not to choke up.

“Do you remember that one ball we both attended, back in, ah, 1820 or so?” Crowley was saying conversationally, oblivious to his reaction. His arm was steady around his waist as he guided him in a slow circle, palm to palm. “The night of that terrible thunderstorm. I was there tempting that duke to...swindle someone, I think it was. You were wearing that ridiculous coat, the velvet mauve one with the big lace cuffs and cravats.” He plucked teasingly at the front of his ivory dressing gown, gold eyes soft with reminiscing. “I wanted to ask you to dance then. Scandal be damned. Give the court gossips something _real_ to natter about.” 

“I _do_ remember that night,” Aziraphale said, looking at him in surprise. “You spent the entire evening scowling in the corner and making fun of that coat. A ‘lady’s handkerchief’ is what you said I looked like, if I recall correctly.” He didn’t mention that he remembered it specifically because _he_ had spent the night surreptitiously eyeing Crowley in his elegant, midnight-blue formal clothes, trying to ignore him with all his might and failing miserably. It had been a very irritating party on multiple levels. 

“Uh, yeah.” The demon had the grace to look at least slightly sheepish. “Sorry?” 

“No you’re not.” 

Crowley only grinned wickedly and spun him around again, bare feet scuffing on the floorboards. “Well, you looked very nice.” 

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “It _would_ have been quite the scandal, wouldn’t it.” 

“Mhm. Missed opportunity if you ask me. We could’ve had a lot of fun with that.” The hand on his lower back slithered down to squeeze his posterior, then back up in a lightning flash before he could do more than squeak. 

“Well,” he said once he got his breath back, and stopped blushing like a fool. “Well. I’d say we’ve more than made up for it in scandal since. Entirely your fault, obviously. You were the one who kissed me first, after all.” That life-changing night at the bookshop seemed like only yesterday, and a lifetime ago, all at once. 

“Ha.” Crowley put a hand under his chin and tilted his face up to kiss his mouth. His lips were very soft, and eager. His hand lingered, thumb moving to just barely brush his chin. “As I recall,” he murmured, “it was _you_ who miracled up the bed, my darling. And then kissed me in that bed. Who exactly was tempting who, hmm?”

 _Ba-dum_. Aziraphale's entire heart jolted at the new endearment, and he had to take a moment to collect himself. Crowley said it so casually, easily – not at all as if he had only said it for the first time mere hours ago! Not at all as if he had only ever called him _angel_ or by name in their entire six thousand years knowing each other. Hearing _darling_ from his lips, so naturally…it made him feel as if the breath had been taken straight out of his lungs. He didn’t say anything, but just shut his eyes and leaned a little closer into him as they swayed, breathing carefully against his warm cheek and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. So filled with joyful tenderness that he was surprised the room didn't brighten in response.

“I guess that’s a fair point,” he said when he could trust his voice not to catch. “I only knew that I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life, and wanted you to stay. The rest sort of....gained momentum from there.” He could feel heat flooding his cheeks again, which given how they had spent their evening was _so_ ridiculous. Crowley had a tendency to inspire ridiculous behavior. 

There was a long stretch filled with only the quiet music, and then, in a near-whisper: “Are you still happy?” 

Aziraphale pulled back a little and looked up at him in surprise. Crowley was gazing at him with such open, hopeful vulnerability, and a flip reply died on his tongue. 

“Oh, my love,” he sighed quietly, reproachfully. “How can you ask that?” 

Crowley hesitated and looked away. “It’s just that...the trials. Hastur tried to kill you. We’re in the shit with your side now. All this because you threw your lot in with me.” His arms around his waist had tightened, as if afraid he would suddenly decide to be elsewhere. “I was already Fallen,” he said quietly, eyes downcast. “It was always only a matter of time before I seriously cocked things up and brought the hammer down on myself. I didn’t have much to lose, but you did. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you felt like you got more than you signed up for.” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stopped swaying and took hold of his face with both hands, making him meet his eyes. “I’m not a complete fool. I knew what I was doing. You are my side now. You. And I would never, ever take it back, not for all the stars in heaven. I’ve told you that. Not for all the desserts or books in the world, or all the favour that Management could bestow." He rose up on his toes and kissed him, gently, and the pulse of emotion in response was like the very first sip of hot cocoa. "I’d rather be wildly unsafe with you than safe as houses with anyone else.” 

“Oh. Well then.” Crowley swallowed hard, gazing at him. A tiny corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Good. Nice to know that I married someone as mad as I am.” 

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Yes. Mad indeed. We’re both beautifully, beautifully mad. I wouldn’t have you any other way! There’s no one else in all the world like you, and there’s certainly never been another demon like you. You care about humans-” 

Crowley’s sad expression evaporated as he grimaced and made a gagging noise. “Gahhhh, oh bloody _hell_ , angel, I _don’t_ -” 

“You _care_ about humans,” Aziraphale insisted firmly, rolling right over his disgusted protests. “And you are kind, and brave, and you’ve risked your own life multiple times to save me. Even when I was an enemy.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Crowley scoffed, and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. “You were never an enemy.” 

“That’s rather my point, darling,” Aziraphale wheezed, and the demon quickly loosened his grip a little. “No other demon would have spoken to me like a friend that day on the Wall.” 

“I- yeah, well,” Crowley mumbled, and pressed his nose into his shoulder. “I was prob’ly just starved for conversation. Didn’t exactly have many friends down there.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

Crowley gave a nonchalant shrug. “Aaaaannnd, you were cute, so…” There was an unmistakable smirk in his voice now, and Aziraphale laughed. 

He suddenly realized that the music had ended, had probably ended a while ago. The record was simply spinning in place with a quiet whirring noise. He'd been so focused on their conversation that he hadn't even noticed the silence. 

Crowley glanced over at it too without letting go of him, apparently noticing the same thing, and turned the machine off with a careless wave of his hand. He yawned. “Well, I don’t know about you, my beautifully mad angel, but it's been kind of a long day, and I’m still knackered. Since we don't seem to be in any immediate mortal danger, would you care to sit down for a while?” _Sit_ being code for _nap_ , of course. 

In answer, Aziraphale held out one hand behind him and snapped his fingers, and the sofa obediently slid towards them with a screeech of floorboards until it bumped against the back of their legs. They both sank down onto the cushions with matching sighs. Crowley promptly wrapped him up into his lanky arms and breathed warm kisses against his neck, they way he often did on lazy days. “Love you, angel. Thanks for the dance.” He stroked his face with the back of his fingers and yawned again, hugely, eyelids already drooping. 

Aziraphale couldn't help but envy him a little- his husband had the nearly magical ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, in any location, any position, no matter what was going on. He could switch off his brain and render himself unconscious so fast that it bordered on a form of narcolepsy. It was fascinating to watch. He pressed a fond kiss to his forehead and smoothed his hair back the way he liked, putting it into a kind of tousled order. “It was lovely, my dear. Let’s not wait six thousand years for the next milestone, alright?” 

"Yuh huh.” 

_And there_ will _be another six thousand years_ , he thought with grim determination. No one was going to take that time away from them. They had far too much to make up for. 

The quiet moment was broken, of all things, by Menace suddenly leaping up onto the dozing Crowley's lap with a loud _mrow,_ startling them both and making the demon jump violently. "Shit," he exclaimed, clutching at his chest. "Where the hell did he come from?" He made swiping motions and tried to wave him off, as usual, and Menace completely ignored him, as usual. It was practically tradition at this point. “He always appears out of nowhere.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t fooled for an instant by the irritated tone. He'd overheard him speaking animatedly to the cat more than a few times, when he thought no one was in earshot. Each time he had nearly popped from trying not to laugh and give himself away. 

"I'm sure he was just hiding somewhere during all the...commotion earlier." He pulled the now-purring cat over into his own lap and stroked the tattered ears, feeling just a bit more tension bleed away. It was always reassuring to see that all the little pieces of their world were still intact. Menace sat there with the self-satisfied look that all cats have, looking happily up at them both. "Sweet little creature." 

“Ughhh, yes yes.” Crowley rolled his eyes and yawned again. “Scoot, you. I was trying to nap.” He picked the cat up with surprising gentleness and moved him over to the other end of the sofa, then pivoted to drape his own legs across Aziraphale’s lap. He curled up with arms around his neck, and relaxed back into place with a soft, contented sigh. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Wait a minute...were you actually _jealous_? Of the _cat_?” 

“’Course not,” Crowley muttered, and held him a little tighter. He was lying scrunched up with head pillowed on his chest, eyes already shut. “This is jus’ a more comfortable position, that’s all.” 

"Mmm hmm." It surely didn't look more comfortable, but he decided not to challenge the point. He summoned one of the blankets on the floor to him and draped it over them both, making sure to tuck it in over all the knees and limbs poking out. They scarcely needed it, what with the demon's radiating feverish heat, but there was something soothing about lying under a blanket that went beyond mere physical warmth. Cuddling just wasn't quite the same without it. 

He wrapped both arms around his husband's shoulders with an indulgent kiss on the head, and smoothed his hair again. “Sleep now, darling, for as long as you like," he murmured to him. "Let me watch over you tonight for once. I'll keep you safe, I promise." 

"I know." Crowley’s yellow eyes slitted open a crack, just barely awake, and peered up at him. “The very first time we met,” he said sleepily, “you shielded me from the rain. Before you even knew me or had any reason to care.” His eyes slid shut again. “Even then you were my shelter in the storm.” The last words trailed off until they were almost a whisper. Moments later he was snoring, breath a quiet warm buzz against his neck. 

Aziraphale just held him for a long while in the near-silence, stroking his hair, feeling the familiar rhythm of his sleeping body rise and fall atop him. The warm beat of his heart against his chest, the faint damp spot where he always drooled just a little bit, no matter how much he swore that demons did not drool. Listening to the tick-tock of the mantel clock, the faint wheeze of Menace's snoring a couple feet away. The feel and sounds of home.

“Always. I always will be your shelter, my love,” he whispered, careful not to wake him. He laid his cheek atop Crowley’s head and summoned a favourite book from his library with a snap of his fingers, settling in for a long vigil. He glanced once more at the sword leaning against the far wall, and his mouth made a firm, determined line. "No matter what happens."

* * *


	12. Of Her Own Devising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, we are down to the final couple chapters! Whoa! Only two more to go after this- POSSIBLY three, if I end up splitting one in half again because it's too long. Thank you SO much for your patience through my update delays.
> 
> Also: heads up, angst incoming!

* * *

The next morning dawned sunny and clear, like most mornings had lately. True to his word Aziraphale had not slept, though as the hours ticked by he had eventually picked up the loudly snoring demon and carried him upstairs to their bed for some proper sleep. It was much more comfortable there, and the bedside lamp had provided just enough light to read without difficulty. It was hours past dawn now. Crowley was still curled against him with head resting on his chest and arms wrapped tight around his middle, one long leg draped across his knees, snoring louder than ever. 

Aziraphale placed a soft kiss on the side of his head and rubbed his cheek against his hair. The long night of reading had been very peaceful and very familiar- just like the old days before sleep, before everything had changed, only with one significant improvement. He tightened his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and deftly turned a page with the thumb of the same hand holding the book. He’d become pretty good at that over the last year, if he did say so himself. The alternative was to let go of Crowley, and most of the time he simply wasn’t willing to make that sacrifice, so he had adapted. Necessity was the mother of invention, after all, as the humans said. The thought made him grin, and he hugged his personal necessity a little closer. Crowley shifted in his sleep and snuggled his scratchy face into his neck, sending a glow of unadulterated happiness through him. Crowley was quite the aggressive cuddler when he slept.

Lying here like this he could easily pretend that it was a morning like any other, that nothing at all significant had happened yesterday. That they had not, in fact, nearly been summarily executed. That they were not waiting to see what the fallout of that day might be. 

Aziraphale one-handedly turned another page and very deliberately did _not_ look at the elaborate silver sword leaning against the wall by the bed, the one shining brighter than could be accounted for even by the vivid morning sunshine. The weapon that he had stolen from Archangel Michael, an action that once would have shocked him with its audacity but now only filled him with a kind of grim satisfaction. It had served them _right._

He dismissed the memory for the thousandth time in the last few hours, and re-focused on his book. It was one of his old favourites, a first-edition collection of beautifully heartwrenching short stories by Oscar Wilde: The Happy Prince And Other Tales. He had read it so many times over the years, but sometimes re-reading a book was akin to seeing an old and beloved friend. At times like this the familiar stories were nearly as comforting as Crowley’s warm weight against him. He kissed the russet head again and let out another contented sigh. Really, all he was missing was a mug of cocoa to make the entire situation perfect. Perhaps he would miracle one up. 

From downstairs, there was a sudden sharp knock at the door. 

His head jerked up. _No._ The book fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and he clutched Crowley protectively against himself, unmoving, not even breathing. Somehow, without even going to look, he knew it was not a neighbor. He knew it was not a delivery man. They almost never had visitors, anyhow, and some angelic instinct told him that it was most certainly not one now. He knew with an absolute certainty he could not quite explain that it was The Fallout, whatever it was...come for them far quicker than he had hoped.

He just lay there in their bed, holding on to his husband with both arms, heart pounding. It simply was not fair. They had fought so hard for this, for this lovely home and their right to keep it- yet it seemed that still one more fight was required. No matter what it took, he could not- w _ould not_ allow Crowley to be taken from him. Nor would he allow him to be sent back to Hell, not while he had life in his soul to fight. He had spent only a couple short hours there last year, but the memory of that that airless, lightless, hopeless place…full of angry, glinting eyes and furtive dark shadows…he shuddered. The thought of his beautiful, clever demon trapped there was an unacceptable horror. 

For a moment he had the truly ridiculous urge to simply yank the tartan covers over them both like a small human child. Pretend not to be home. Hide there curled up together in their soft, perfect bed that smelled like Crowley and try to shut out the world for just a few minutes longer, to not face whatever blasted new complication had arrived. But he knew that was pure foolishness. Blankets, or doors, or walls for that matter, would not pose any barrier if the angels’ patience should run out.

And he was a Principality. He would _not_ be found cowering in fear. 

“Crowley,” he whispered. “Darling, wake up.” He struggled into a sitting position, removing the demon’s arm from around him and jostling him. “Wake up!” 

Crowley sat bolt upright with a gasp, blinking and looking wildly around. “What-?” 

The knocking came again, louder, and they both froze. 

Crowley wasn’t stupid- he immediately arrived at the same conclusion that he had. “ _Already?_ ” he demanded, looking at him with dismay written all over his face. 

“Apparently so. I don’t suppose Alpha Centauri is still an option?” He said it as a joke, with a nervous laugh. He knew neither of them intended to run. 

Crowley rubbed a hand down his face. "Ugh. Are we sure- _Do_ angels even knock? I thought they just...appeared to you." He made a sarcastic * _poof*_ kind of gesture with his hand. "In a flash of holy light."

Aziraphale shook his head. "They made that policy change sometime in the 6th century or so. There were a few, er, incidents where- not important. They simply decided it was best to remove the element of surprise, as it were." 

"Well, fuck knows we've had enough of that." The demon just sat there for a moment next to him, unshaven, russet hair askew, staring towards the bedroom doorway with a look of intense thought. “Right,” he said. He whipped his head towards Aziraphale, jaw set in determination, golden eyes blazing. “You know what, angel, I’m about sick of this. I’m _sick_ of just sitting around waiting for people to decide what to do with us. Let’s go face the bastards head on, eh? See what they want, settle this once and for all.” 

Aziraphale felt his heart lift, and his own courage stood a little straighter. Crowley always made impossible things seem possible, with that fierce, reckless courage of his that he so admired. He gave a firm nod. “Yes.” Fresh anger began to bloom, and his hands made resolute fists in the sheets. “Yes indeed. Let’s put an end to this nonsense, together.” 

“Come on then.” Crowley leapt out of bed and snapped his fingers, and there was a flurry of power and whirling black fabric. The disheveled dressing gown was replaced by black jeans, black button-down shirt tucked under close-fitting black waistcoat, topped with a black jacket – solid black from head to toe, a match for his slowly-darkening countenance. He ran his hands through his messy hair, and it just kind of… _folded_ obediently into place. Within the space of only a few deep breaths he stood looking as put-together as he had ever seen him, leather boots and watch and all. 

“Well, since we’re doing it like _that...”_ Not to be outdone, Aziraphale stood and snapped his fingers as well, instantly garbing himself in his neatest and most everyday ensemble. He did love putting on clothes the proper way, but on occasion shortcuts could be forgiven. He adjusted his pocket watch chain and straightened his bow tie, making sure everything was just so. He wasn’t about to be caught looking sloppy by someone like Michael. Even in desperate times, he _did_ have standards. 

There was another loud knock from downstairs, harder and more insistent this time. Definitely not a normal visitor. Any human would have given up by now, with the possible exception of door-to-door salesmen. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for it to be one of those wretched salesman.

He exchanged a tense look with Crowley. The demon tugged him forward by the lapels and kissed him - Aziraphale threw his arms around his neck and bowled him over onto their bed, kissing him back with as much fervour as he could muster. He took his time, painfully aware that it might be his last chance to do this. 

He finally pushed himself back to his feet and pulled Crowley up too. “Shall we, my dear?” He smoothed back the freshly-disheveled red hair with a smile, then steeled himself and retrieved the gleaming sword from next to the bed. He hefted it in his hand, testing the weight of it, feeling that subtle hum of power shiver down the metal, terrifying and heartening all at once. "Let's go have a conversation." 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, and slid his dark glasses onto his face, completing the look. “Tally-ho.” 

* * *

Hand in hand they made their way downstairs, through the still-wrecked sitting room to the front door. It was an oddly familiar feeling by now, this sense of going willingly to face powers far out of their league. But this time- at least this time he was not alone. Crowley was a reassuringly solid presence at his shoulder, and his fever-warm fingers were laced tight through his own, steadying. Aziraphale swallowed and adjusted his grip on the sword. He dearly hoped that it would be unnecessary, but he was taking no chances. 

He cautiously moved aside the curtain just a fraction to peek through the side window, and when he saw who was standing on the doormat he blinked. “Oh,” he said, making the word an exhale. 

Crowley looked too. “ _Oh,”_ he snarled, and his face darkened to thundercloud proportions. “Bloody _brilliant_.” 

Aziraphale pulled open the door, and met the purple eyes squarely. 

“Hello, Gabriel.” 

Archangel Gabriel stood there on their sunlit front step in his pressed grey suit and spotless crisp white shirt, back ramrod straight. He was holding a brown leather briefcase and looked perfectly out of place standing next to the potted flowers and buzzing bees, the neatly pruned hedges and flowering vines. He also looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the entire world. He glanced down at their entwined hands and pressed his mouth into a flat line. “Ah. Hello.”

Aziraphale got the distinct impression that he had been hoping no one would answer the door. 

Before he could say anything more Crowley immediately stepped forward, scowling. “Fucking _hell,_ ” he burst out. “Can’t you lot give us even a day of peace? Wasn’t this sorted yesterday? Didn’t your boss weigh in already? Why don’t you just _sod right off!"_

 _Good Lord._ Had he lost his marbles? He’d forgot just how much Crowley personally hated the archangel. Aziraphale shoved his idiotic, impulsive husband behind his back before he could do something truly mad like throw a punch. He gripped the hilt of the sword strangling-tight (in lieu of throttling him) as he faced Gabriel. “What he _means_ to say is, what exactly do you want? If you intend either of us harm I must warn you that I am prepared to resist.” His voice was pitched a little higher than he would have liked, but he cleared his throat and soldiered on. “Strenuously, if needed.” 

“That’s right, he will. And so will I,” Crowley interjected over his shoulder. “If you try anything, I’ll-”

“No, you _won’t,”_ Aziraphale said grimly, and this time it was him who grabbed ahold of Crowley’s shirt and held him forcibly back. He held onto the struggling, protesting demon and addressed Gabriel again. “You aren’t taking Crowley without going through me.” 

“And you aren’t taking him without going through _me!”_ Crowley insisted from behind him. 

He twisted to glare at him sidelong, without taking his eyes off the archangel. “Crowley, you promised!” 

“I didn’t promise I would stand here and do _nothing!”_

"Let me handle this!” 

“By yourself? Fat chance!” Crowley wrapped his arms around him and tried to wrestle him over a bit so he could stand next to him, but Aziraphale planted his feet and wouldn’t let himself be moved. 

“For heavens sake, you daft serpent-” He grappled with him, careful not to so much as scratch him with the sword he held. It was difficult. Crowley was quick and wiggly, and it was hard to keep an eye ahead at the same time. 

“Just budge up, you impossible-” Crowley hauled on his arm, to no visible effect. 

“No!” 

Gabriel just stood there with arms at his sides during all this, watching them dispassionately. When they showed no signs of winding down he finally sighed and pinched between his eyes with a pained expression. 

“Will you two _please_ just shut up?” he said loudly, eyes closed. 

Crowley stopped mid-insult with arms around Aziraphale’s chest, and just stood there glaring at him. Aziraphale shook him off and sputtered into silence, panting. He cleared his throat and readjusted his grip on the sword. This was not off to an auspicious start. 

“Thank you.” Beneath the obvious irritation, Gabriel looked tired. Exhausted, really, and rather subdued, lacking his usual jovial self-assurance. His violet eyes had faint shadows beneath them, as if he had spent a very long, busy night without sleep- except that of course archangels did not need sleep. Or have nights, technically. Or get tired. How very interesting. “Just- be quiet. Don’t say another word. I’m only here to serve this.” 

He made a sharp, irritable motion that made them both flinch, but he only unclipped the leather briefcase at his side and extracted a thick folio binder. As they watched in baffled silence he rifled through it, muttering to himself and shuffling things around. Aziraphale shot a glance at Crowley, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

Gabriel finally licked his finger and pulled out a set of documents. “Here we are.” He dug into the briefcase for a pen, and straightened again. He clicked the pen, cleared his throat, and spoke in a quick businesslike monotone: “Principality Aziraphale, you are forthwith served.”

He made a note in his binder with the pen (a small flare of golden light ensued) and shoved the papers at Aziraphale, who took them automatically. 

“I....you mean, you’re not here to arrest us?” he asked stupidly. It probably wasn’t a good idea to bring up the subject, but he felt a bit at a loss. He wasn’t sure what exactly he had been expecting when he saw Gabriel at their door, but paperwork was certainly not it. He was still waiting for the proverbial axe to drop. “What- what exactly-” He looked down at the papers in his hand. “What on earth are...” 

Gabriel ignored his stammering. He dug into the folio again and pulled out a much larger sheaf of papers, then turned his gaze towards Crowley, who was still just standing there glaring balefully at him over his shoulder like an angry guardian raven. The archangel opened his mouth, and paused. A vein pulsed in his forehead. 

That was interesting. He hadn’t thought that Gabriel even had a circulatory system. 

With what seemed like a great effort he finally spoke, sounding like he resented every word: “Demon Crowley. You are forthwith served and we gladly await your reply **.** ” He brusquely thrust the papers at Crowley's chest. When the demon only kept glaring at him and made no move to take them, Gabriel let go with a shrug, and the stack of papers dropped to the ground at his feet with a _flump_. 

“There,” he said in clipped tones, and made another brisk golden note in his book. “That mercifully concludes our business for the time being.” He closed the binder with a sharp snap. 

“Wait. _What_ concludes our business?” Crowley demanded. He looked down and prodded gingerly at the pile of documents with one toe, as if it were roadkill instead of paper. “What the hell is this?” 

The archangel jammed the folio back into the briefcase and paused. “You know, I have asked that same question. I’m afraid it is, evidently, above my paygrade.” He snapped down the lid and fastened everything back up, then straightened with a long-suffering sigh. “Well, folks, I would say it has been a pleasure, but...it hasn’t.” He shook his head and turned to go without further ado. 

Aziraphale just stood there holding the papers in one hand and the sword at his side in the other. He suddenly felt rather silly. 

Gabriel stopped after only a couple steps and turned slowly, reluctantly back with lips pressed tightly together, looking somehow even more unhappy. He opened his mouth, hesitated as if having second thoughts, then said: 

“Incidentally, I’ve been asked to pass on a message. From a file clerk in our miracle department. They were very....emphatic.” His eyelid twitched. “The message is simply, quote, ‘Please, please stop.’ End quote.” He held up a restraining forefinger before either of them could speak. “I _don’t_ want to know what they were talking about. I _don’t_ want to know anything about any of it. I _don’t_ want this to come across my desk again, understand? Whatever the _hell_ you two are doing, just fucking quit it.” He looked them both in the eye, one by one, then made a sharp negative gesture with his hand, palm facing out. “Quit it.” He turned stiffly on his Oxford leather heel and stalked away down the cobblestone path.

There was a flash of blinding silver light and a single melodious chime, and Gabriel vanished without a trace. 

Crowley and Aziraphale both watched him go in stunned silence. The morning sun continued shining on the empty porch, birds continued chirping, bees continued buzzing. The rooster that lived in the nearby field let out one of its customary loud shrieks. Nothing else happened at all. It was the very picture of a perfect, perfectly normal summer day. 

Aziraphale blinked and turned to Crowley. His mouth worked a few times, and he asked, “Do...you don’t suppose...that last bit there, about the miracles…could he have been referring to-” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “ _Oh_. Oh dear.” 

“Yep.” 

He was running a few very interesting recent evenings over in his head, not to mention the immediate night before, and felt his cheeks grow warm. “I completely forgot about the automatic miracle alert system,” he said faintly. 

“Understandable. It’s been a busy year.” 

“That means...every time we-” 

“Yes.” 

“And then last night, when-” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“Um....I…an apology letter may be in order.” 

“If you must.” 

There was a long, drawn out silence. A passing gull cawed overhead. 

Crowley recovered first, and finally turned to him. “Okay. What? What exactly just happened? What the hell was that about? What the hell is all _this_?” He crouched down and scooped up the documents, holding them gingerly out from his body as if they might bite him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled as anything that no one tried to kill us. Made for a refreshing change of pace. And far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, but... wait, I suppose he _is_ gone?” He darted a suspicious look around, as if expecting more angels to pop out of the neatly-trimmed hedge. When none did, he put an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and eased them both gently backwards into the house, then shut and locked the door. “Are you okay?” he asked, and only then did Aziraphale realize that he was still clutching the sword in a death grip. 

“Yes, yes I’m alright.” He felt dazed. He had been so amped up and ready for action, and was left rather deflated by comparison. "A bit stunned, that's all. I was expecting...well, anything but that.” He carefully set the sword against the wall by the door; it was hard to unclasp his fingers from the hilt, but somehow he didn’t think he needed it anymore. He reached out and took Crowley's hand instead. “Come on, darling. Let’s go sit down and see what precisely we are dealing with.” 

* * *

They made their bewildered way back into the kitchen and sat at the polished wood dining table, side by side. Aziraphale dug into his pocket and retrieved his reading glasses, and slid them onto his nose. Crowley tossed his own sunglasses carelessly onto the table, then scooted his chair closer to him and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

For a quiet minute the two of them peered down at their individual sets of papers. 

"Holy shit, angel, look at this." Crowley ran a forefinger along a line at the top of the first page, reading aloud. " _'The accused, Demon Crawly, alias Anthony Crowley, is hereby cleared of all outstanding charges, past and present, including but not limited to sabotaging Armageddon, corrupting a Principality, meddling in angelic affairs, tempting-_ ' wait, _alias_ Anthony Crowley? The fucking cheek. But does that mean..." 

"Yes. I have one too." Aziraphale stared down at his own form in disbelief. "We've been exonerated. We're no longer under sentence from Heaven. Officially." It _looked_ very official. There were several different coloured wax seals and at least one elaborate twirly signature in blue ink. He moved the pardon over and scanned the second document underneath. "Goodness. I've also got one that says I've been retired!"

“Retired?” Crowley said slowly, as if tasting the word. “Okaayyyy... I didn’t know that was a thing. What exactly does that entail?” 

“Well, according to this...” he replied hesitantly, scanning **t** he page. Too much optimism felt like it might curse the entire situation, but a closer examination of the form confirmed it. “I've been simply relieved of my official duties, deactivated, with no replacement duties specified. It's not a punishment. I don't know what else to call it besides retired.” 

Crowley folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, looking as thunderstruck as he felt. "No wonder Gabriel looked like he'd swallowed a porcupine. We must have done something right after all."

"It would appear that way, yes. So...if I'm retired, what in Heaven's name is this then?" He reached over and pulled Crowey's second, much larger stack of papers towards him. "This isn't the same at all." It was dripping with so many fancy seals and ribbons that at first it was difficult to focus on the tiny print. 

As he read a sense of utter disbelief settled over him. He quickly re-read the first page a few times, then again, slower, to make sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was. Then a final time, to make sure he wasn't mad. "Darling." He reached out and took Crowley’s hand, a quick urgent motion. “Darling, these papers....” he could barely speak from the shock, and he looked up at Crowley with eyes so wide it felt like they might fall out. “It looks like it means...Crowley, it’s an offer to be reinstated to _status_. Status…

....as an _angel_.” 

There was a dead silence as the demon stared at him. You could have heard a pin drop.

“ _What??”_ he said at last. “Come off it. That’s not funny at all.” When he didn't say anything, Crowley seized the stack of documents from him and stared at them. “That’s completely stupid. You’re reading it wrong.” 

“I...don’t think so, actually. The language is quite clear, once you get past the boilerplate items. See for yourself.” He pointed to the second paragraph, and read: " _'For services rendered on behalf of Heaven and Humanity, and for having shown great Fortitude in the face of Adversity, the Undersigned is hereby reinstated to status of Principality, if and at such time...' "_ He had to swallow before continuing, " _'...as you choose to receive it. Signature will render all previous demonic contracts and obligations null and void…''"_ His voice failed him, and he shook his head. "I- I can't see much room for misinterpretation there," he said faintly. 

Crowley was shaking his head even as he read the passage, jaw set in a mulish expression. “No, that's....Well, then they’re fake." He smacked the table with the flat of his hand. "That explains it. They're probably all fake, then. That prick Gabriel or someone else is messing with us, as some sort of revenge play.” 

“No, they can’t.” 

Crowley groaned and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “Angel, you can’t possibly still believe that they-“ 

“No, not they _wouldn’t-_ they _can’t_ ,” Aziraphale said in rising excitement. “Look.” He pointed to the bottom of the document, where among all the rest an elaborate golden seal was glowing faintly. “That’s the Metatron’s sigil, imbued with his essence. It can’t be faked. And they wouldn't dare.” He looked wide-eyed up at Crowley, who was staring at him blankly. “My pardon has that sigil too. It means it came almost directly from _Her._ These are all real. She exonerated us and She’s- She’s giving you the option to be an angel again.” 

Crowley was still shaking his head, recoiling back in his chair as if to fend off the words. “No, no, why would She do that? That’s insane. She can’t do that.” 

“I’ve never even heard of such a thing before. I don’t think it’s ever been done.” Aziraphale felt like he had been hit in the face. A year or so ago, this would have filled him with pure euphoria, but they had come a long way since then. Now he felt so many conflicting things that it was almost like feeling nothing at all. “I don’t even know what to say. But...She really is. It's true.” 

Crowley had gone ashen. He stared at him, close-mouthed and white-lipped, then looked down again at the papers in his lap. “But- that’s impossible. It doesn’t make any damn sense,” he muttered, as if to himself. His face went completely, utterly still; all expression drained away. For a full minute he just sat there without moving a muscle, distant and remote as carved stone. Gazing into space. It didn’t look like he was even breathing. 

Aziraphale swallowed and tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder. “Sweetheart? Are you alright?” 

Crowley’s face was closed, yielding nothing. The hand holding the forms slowly clenched into a fist, squeezing, crumpling the paper. 

Without warning he leapt up with a furious exclamation, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter and making the angel jump. “You’ve got- they’ve got to be _kidding_ me,” he spat, pressing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Please tell me you’re kidding. I can’t believe the cheek- the _nerve_ \- the utter fucking _gall!_ Those arrogant bastards- they’ve got to be shitting me! What the hell are they playing at?” He began to pace back and forth in rising agitation, gesturing furiously at the air with the papers. “They tried to kill you- and me!- yesterday and now- they can’t just- She thinks I’ll just- _aaaargh,_ I can’t, I won’t!” he burst out desperately, speaking more to himself than Aziraphale. He looked up at the ceiling, and there was a terrible wounded rage in his face. 

“After all this? All those thousands and _thousands_ of years, everything I’ve done! And She just wants to reinstate me as if I’ve been on- on sabbatical?” He laughed, a choked and mirthless sound, nothing like his usual laugh. “She kicked me out! What was- what was it all even for? I’m a _demon_ , it’s too late, there’s no going _back_ , they can’t take you _back_...” He ground his palms into his eyes again, face contorted in anguish. 

“Darling, wait, it’s alright-“ Aziraphale tried to interject, alarmed, but Crowley clearly didn’t hear him. 

“I’m unredeemable, it’s part of the job description!” he ranted, shouting at nothing. His breath was coming in little half-gasps. “I was _okay_ with that, I made my peace, and now She just- just _...gahhhhhhhhrgh....”_ He groaned incoherently and leaned back, clutching at his hair, looking absolutely manic. A vase on a nearby shelf exploded, showering the wall with bits of broken pottery, and the wood floor under his pacing feet began to smoke. 

Aziraphale had never in six thousand years seen him this upset. Not when Armageddon was looming, not when the demons had almost killed him. He had seen him angry, drunk, frightened, desperate, and every possible variation thereof. But never quite like this. 

Crowley brandished the papers in his direction and stabbed his finger at a line at the bottom of the front page, wild-eyed. “Oh, oh, and look, look, of _course_ I have to sign. She had to give me a _choice_. She loves to make people _choose_!” He looked up again and shook the papers violently at the sky, crumpling them in his fist. “ _Now_ I have a choice? Is that it? Just-just- Are you _serious_? After all this time? And after what just happened?!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Why? What was the point- what- what the _hell_ , what the absolute bloody fucking _fuck-"_ He stopped, breathing as hard as if he had just run a marathon. He let go of the papers and abruptly dropped to sit in a heap of limbs on the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Pages fluttered down around him in every direction, and he buried his face in clawed hands. 

“I don’t get it. Just...why?” His muffled voice broke on the last word. He began to sob, great heaving wretched sounds that seemed to tear their way out of his chest and wrack his entire body. 

Aziraphale stood and came over to crouch down next to him, and put a comforting hand on his hunched shoulders. The demon didn’t respond, so he sat down on the scorched, still-warm floor and pulled him unresisting into his arms. For a long time he just sat there holding Crowley amid the scattered pages, rubbing his back and smoothing his hair as he cried. Rocking him gently in place, whispering "It's alright," over and over again. 

The sobs eventually subsided into gasps and finally an exhausted silence. 

“All these long millennia,” Aziraphale said quietly at last. “I’ve often thought about how lucky I am. More times than I can possibly count. I’ve thought about how incredibly, wonderfully fortunate it was that you were… _you_. How remarkable it was that of all the demons in Hell that could have been assigned here, I got you…a demon who _didn’t_ despise me on sight. Who doesn’t truly hate humans at all. Who was never an adversary, not the way you were supposed to be. A demon unlike any I’ve ever even heard of.” 

Crowley didn’t look up, but one hand slid up to grasp his own, fingers entwining. He held on to his hand like a lifeline. 

Aziraphale said nothing for a moment, rocking his remarkable demon in his arms with lips against his head. 

“Darling, what if…it wasn’t mere luck after all? 

“If us stopping the War really was part of the Plan all along…then you were a huge part of that Plan.” He looked down and stroked the back of Crowley’s neck, but there was no response. “You were the one who convinced me to try and stop Armageddon, twelve years ago. I never would have done that on my own, nor would any of the other angels." He laughed a little, bitterly, remembering the way he had been dismissed. _Wars are to be won, not avoided._ Indeed. _"_ It was all you. If you really trace it back to its source, _you_ saved the world. Out of all the multitudes of both Heaven and Hell, you were the _only one_ with both the heart to question the War and the courage to try and do something about it.” It was his own private shame that he had not been so brave. 

“That’s not- I didn’t- what does any of that have to do with _this_.” Crowley still didn’t look up, but waved one arm around at the floor, at the scattered pages. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, thinking it through aloud. “If you had never Fallen, you would never have been assigned here to earth. It would have been some other demon, someone much different. Probably someone more like Hastur. And a different demon certainly wouldn’t have come to care about earth, or humans, the way I do. Another demon might have actually succeeded in influencing the AntiChrist like they were supposed to.” He hugged him closer still; saying it aloud made it seem all the more possible and frightening. “Then - war. Armageddon. Fire and brimstone and falling stars, seas boiling, the whole lot of it. All those people and animals, horribly dead. All of this, gone forever. We would have lost our entire world.” The last he said in a tone of quiet horror. 

“That is...if it had been _anyone_ except you- my lovely, unique, perfect demon. So...what I mean to say, my point is....” He gulped, hard. It sounded insane even inside his own head, but he pushed on, breathless with the possibility. “Perhaps you never truly Fell. Not like most demons do. Maybe you Fell specifically so you would be exactly where you needed to be when the time came- right here, between humans and the rest of us. To stop the end of the world." 

Mad as it sounded, there was a certain ring to it. It felt _right,_ much like when he had told off Michael the day before. That same odd sense of certainty settled into his gut, and he tightened his arms around Crowley and kissed the top of his bowed head. 

“Its just a theory, but...what if you did Fall for asking questions, but not in the way you thought?” he said. “Maybe She- maybe the Plan needed someone in place who _would_ ask questions. Particularly one big, terribly all-important Question when the time came. The question of _why_. What if you were less thrown out and more...strategically placed?” 

Silence. He let the huge, ringing question hang in the air for a while, as they each mulled over their own quiet thoughts. 

“Like a damn chess piece,” Crowley said at last, bitterly, hoarse voice muffled in his velvet waistcoat. “That…is just twisty enough to make a kind of sense.” There was another long silence, then, “I have to hand it to the Almighty- if that was the play, then...damn.” 

He pressed his face tighter against Aziraphale’s chest and sighed. “It was a bloody miserable, awful _shite_ of a Plan,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, heart aching for him. He felt his own anger simmering as well, and that only made him ache all the harder. “You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead and stroked his hair. “But it could at least explain...all this. And it would only confirm what I’ve always known, my dear. That you are special, and wonderful, and worth loving.” 

“Worth loving,” Crowley repeated dully. He sounded small, broken. “All those years. I- I never said anything to you because I was a demon. I knew you couldn’t possibly...I knew I couldn’t...” 

"Oh, my beautiful darling," Aziraphale whispered. He hugged him again, and tried to pour as much love and affection into the gesture as he possibly could. His heart was splitting in two. He remembered the conversation they had that first night, all those months ago, as if were yesterday. ' _I knew you could never look at me and see anything worth caring for.'_ The shattered look on Crowley's face as he said it. 

“I know this can’t be much consolation, given...everything. But- but consider, if you _hadn’t_ become a demon, we would never have worked together. You would have been up there with Gabriel and the rest, and we might never have even met at all. We certainly would never have been together, not like this. I know you went through Hell...” He smiled weakly at his terrible joke. “I would give anything to take that from you. I’d Fall for you myself if that would undo any of it.” He clenched his eyes shut. “But for what it’s worth...I can’t truly regret that things turned out the way they did. Because they led me to you. You are the very best part of my entire existence, and... well, all things considered, I think the world is very, very lucky that you became a demon. And I’m very, very lucky, too.” He sat there rocking him, reveling in the press of his body against his, the very human heart beating a pattern against his chest. 

For a long time Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale began to think he wouldn’t respond at all. 

But then he slowly raised his head and looked at him. His golden eyes were puffy and bloodshot. 

“Well, when you go and put it that way,” he croaked. He flashed him a weak shadow of his customary grin. He wrapped his long arms around him and held him so tightly that he creaked, forehead pressed against his. “All things considered...worth it. Wouldn’t change it for the world. Literally.” 

The tears welling in Aziraphale’s eyes spilled over at that, and his throat constricted shut again. He sniffled and just hugged Crowley back, and they sat there in silence together for a long time. 

“If that was the Plan,” Crowley said after a while, sounding bitter again, "would it have killed Her to share what She was planning?” 

“But then it wouldn’t be the _Ineffable_ Plan, would it?” Aziraphale commented dryly. 

“The next person to ever use that word in my presence is going to get set on fire.” Crowley groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Ineffable. Ugh." He sat up and looked dazedly around at the charred floor, and slid one of the crumpled pages towards him with a forefinger. “The fucking nerve of them to offer...after what they did the other day...” he muttered, brooding down at it. 

“I know.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “You have every reason and right to hate angels.” 

Crowley looked up sharply at that. “I don’t hate angels.” 

“You- don’t?” Aziraphale asked, baffled. 

“No! I mean, I hate those angels, for sure. Gabriel and Michael and the lot. I hate the way they run things, the whole shitshow up there. I hate them for trying to hurt you, and everything they’ve done to you.” He heaved an enormous sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. “But I don’t hate angels as a blanket rule. How could I, when you are one?” He reached up and stroked his cheek, expression softening. 

Aziraphale tried to smile, feeling his eyes well up anew. “Well, I can’t ask for a better compliment than that.” He sighed. “Then…what are you going to do?” 

Crowley shook his head, still looking dazed. “I have no idea. I don't even know what to think. It’s been a long, long time. Becoming an angel again wouldn’t undo any of the...shit from the past millennia. It still happened. It wont just magically” – he snapped his fingers, and a small puff of smoke went up – “put things back the way they were, if that’s what they’re thinking. Whatever ‘the way they were’ even was. I’ve been a demon for most of my life.” He brooded at his still-smoking hand for a second. “I don’t even think I’d like being an angel now.” He sniffled. “I don’t even...I’m nothing like those complete wankers upstairs.” 

“I think...that might be...rather the point.” 

Crowley frowned at him. 

He kissed him again. “Well, _they_ certainly didn’t make this decision. Did you see Gabriel’s face?” He felt a surge of glee at the memory. “ _She_ made this call, and She knows exactly what you are like. If the Almighty wanted another Gabriel, well, it seems to me…She wouldn’t have asked you back in the first place.” 

“Huh.” Crowley frowned, at the floor this time, gaze drawn inward. 

“If I’m right,” Aziraphale continued, “then.... maybe you were chosen for this from the Beginning precisely _because_ you are nothing like them.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Shit. If being a dick like Gabriel would have kept any of this from happening to me, then...actually, no, fuck him. I’ll take being Fallen any day.” 

Aziraphale laughed and hugged him tightly, relieved to hear the old spark back in his voice. “That’s the spirit. And for what it’s worth, I think you would make at least as good an angel as I do.” 

Crowley glanced up and finally grinned, truly smiled, a smile that touched the eyes, and it was like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud. “So, an awful one, then? One who gives away their company property, lies about it, cavorts with demons, and never follows orders?” He cupped a hand under his chin and kissed him, and a bright flicker of love ran through the touch like electricity.

“Precisely." Aziraphale beamed at him. "Maybe that’s what She needs sometimes.” 

He snorted. “Huh. You might have a point there. You seem to be evidence that She enjoys a challenge, seeing how She hasn’t smote you straight off the face of the planet yet.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and pushed at his shoulder, then sobered.

“Darling, if you like we can chuck all this in the bin and forget it, and just carry on as we have been. It would be just fine by me, truly. All I care about is that we are together, and nothing is going to change that.” 

Crowley thought silently for a long moment. There was a kind of pained hope in his face. He put his arms around Aziraphale's neck and blew out a gusty breath. “Nnngh. This is a lot. I don't know about you, but what I need right now is alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of it. And you. I need to process all of this, and there is no way I can do it sober. We need to get very drunk right away.” 

“I think that can be arranged."

* * *


	13. All Things Considered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok...so I did it again- split the chapter in half because I thought an 8k chapter might be a bit much. That's the last time, I promise! The chapter count is now nice and accurate. We're in the true and final stretch now, no more extensions!

* * *

“Load of…load of shit is what it is,” Crowley mumbled, some time later. 

They were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor next to each other with their backs against the dining area wall, shoulders touching. The floorboards in front of them bore the scorch marks from his embarrassing loss of control earlier. Pages were still strewn all about exactly where they had fallen, plus the new addition of overturned empty bottles. Lots of empty bottles.

“I mean, who the Hell does- does- who does She think She _is_?” he demanded indignantly of no one in particular. He brandished the half-empty bottle in his hand to make his point. 

“God,” offered Aziraphale helpfully. He had the glossy-eyed-solemn look of the very deeply drunk, and was staring into his glass as if it held the secrets of the universe. 

Crowley scoffed and took another large gulp from his tumbler, slopping some down his front. 

He had poured a glass of wine to relax and help him think, and then another. And another. They were five hours into their thinking now and had graduated to hard liquor after the second one. He squinted at the bottle currently in his hand. It didn’t help, so he squinted harder. The words on the label were fuzzy, but it looked like they were working on a single-malt scotch; some fancy blend that Aziraphale had kept tucked away for a special occasion. Good enough. It all tasted the same by now anyway. He sloshed more amber liquid into his glass and brandished it at the air. 

“S’not like I _wanted_ to be a demon in the first place,” he complained for the umpteenth time. “Never wanted any of it.” 

“You do a good job, though,” Aziraphale said, patting a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Good at it.” 

“Sometimes.” He nodded, a noodle-necked motion. “Sometimes wasn’t too bad. D’you know that, once I convinced mosta Europe that, that tomatoes were poisonous? That was fun.” He’d been proud of that one. There had been a good bunch he’d been proud of. 

_Though when rebellion of any kind means eternal torture, when you’re stuck forever with no hope of escape...you have to find fun where you can._

The clear, bitter thought slithered across his booze-soaked mind, souring the tomato memory and making anger flare anew. He drowned it with another gulp of scotch. 

In a fit of pique he pointed to one of the pages on the floor, and it burst into flames. Aziraphale calmly pointed at it too, and the flames went out. It was not the first time. 

“Lots wasn’t fun,” Crowley muttered sullenly. His hands had been tied. That's what he'd always told himself, right? Hell wasn't exactly forgiving of failure. 

“It’s ridicl- riduclul- stupid that you had to go through all that.” The angel hiccoughed, and suppressed a burp. “If She needed something She could’ve just...” he made a vague, elegant motion with his hand, and shrugged, blinking owlishly. 

Crowley nodded in firm agreement, pouring himself a refill and missing the glass completely. It took him a moment to realize that he was pouring whiskey straight into his own lap, and by then had created quite a puddle. “Gah!” He made a sharp upward gesture, and the spilled liquor vanished. He went to pour more into his glass again, only to discover that he had accidentally vanished the rest of the whiskey in the bottle as well. He tossed the empty container onto the floor with a disgusted exclamation. It landed with a hollow thud, which was disappointing. In his current mood he had hoped it would shatter. 

Aziraphale handed him another full one, and he took it with a solemn nod of thanks. He decided to skip the glass this time, and just took a swig straight from the bottle. “Bollocks to ineffability.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Bollocks to the Plan. The Plot. Always _plotting_. I’ll tell you what, angel, they can take their stupid Plan and shove it right up…right _up_.” He made a rude gesture with his free hand, and rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. “Y’think She’s watching now?”

“Might be, might be.” The angel looked up, too, apprehensively. “Might’ve been keeping an eye on us all along. Or two.” 

“Or three,” Crowley muttered. “Like a damn iguana.” 

“...What?” Aziraphale sounded startled. 

Crowley nodded seriously. “S’true. Iguanas. Third eyeball, smack dab in the middle of their foreheads.” He jabbed a finger at his own. “Swear to Someone. Read it online.” 

“Huh...” 

“The _nerve_ of them, tossing me out, then trying to yank me back in, up, down, like a, like a bloody yo-yo.” He slapped the floor next to him. That didn’t quite seem vehement enough, so he slapped it again, this time leaving a smoking handprint on the wood. “All those years when...when I woulda... Just…just _what_ are they playing at up there?”

Aziraphale was staring into space, apparently still processing the comment about iguanas. He made a rather philosophical shrugging gesture with the hand holding his tumbler, resulting in more than half of his whiskey being flung against the adjacent wall. He stared at it bemusedly for a second before taking a sip of what was left. “Dunno. It’s, it’s not right,” he mumbled into the glass, shaking his head. “You didn’t deserve any of it. It wasn’t fair.” 

Crowley rolled his head over against the wall to look at him, then just kept tilting over sideways until he was lying in Aziraphale’s lap. The angel put his arms around him with a sigh, and Crowley drew up his knees to curl against him on the floor. He kissed his thigh and twisted to look up at his face, cheek pressed into the soft swell of his stomach. Even from this weird angle, he was so pretty. Such a pretty angle- angel. Pretty and deadly and brave, standing ready to fight and die for him like that. So beautiful. He reached up and touched his chin with one finger, concentrating hard. There was something terribly important that he needed to say. It finally came to him, and he rolled the rest of the way over and wrapped his arms around his middle. 

“I’d Fall a dozen- a hundreds more times to get to be with you,” he said, voice muffled. He sighed and kissed his stomach through his waistcoat. “Thousands. Worth every second.” 

There was a silence, then Aziraphale shook his head. “Hush, you’re, you’re just drunk.” 

“So r’you.” 

“Bah.” Aziraphale’s hand came to rest on his head and start carding through his hair. 

“I _would_ , though,” he insisted, not letting go of him. “I _would_.” He kissed his stomach again, then his groin, and for a while was fully occupied with that. He hugged him and pressed his face further into his cushiony lap, making him moan. “Love you,” he slurred. He could feel himself getting weepy, probably the result of mixing all the different liquors. He should have known better than to do that. 

“I love you more.” 

“No, _I_ do.” Crowley peered blurrily up at him again, sniffling. “Love you more than, than anything.” He wanted to say something more, something big and eloquent and grand enough to express how he felt. After a moment of intense concentration he thought he had it: “I’d go to Hell for you, and…and…I wanna kiss you and cherish you and fuck you senseless.” 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to know what to make of that. He just blinked down at him, wide-eyed, as if trying to decipher some unknown hieroglyph, and slowly turned a deep rose colour. “Language,” he finally said. 

“Sorry.” Some poetry just wasn’t appreciated in its time. He sighed and rolled over again. He misjudged it, though, and rolled all the way off his lap to lie flat on his back on the floor. It was pretty comfortable there, too. “I just…don’t wanna lose you.” 

“You won’t. I won’t allow it.” 

“I could, though. One lil’ discorporation, and woop-” he arced his hand through the air, whistling as it fell, and banged a fist on the floorboards, making the empty bottles rattle. “Down, down, down I go. For good. Prolly right into a pit. Filled with scorpions.” Hastur had always particularly favoured the use of scorpions.

“You _won’t_ get discorporated,” Aziraphale said mulishly, shaking his head. “I- I'll smite anyone who tries. Anyone.” He looked around, as if expecting to see demons come charging out of the cupboard. “ _Anyone_ ,” he repeated firmly. 

“Thanks.” Crowley sighed again and stared up at the ceiling. It had long since started to spin, and not in a fun way. “Think I’m gonna sober up. Head hurts.” 

Sobering wasn’t nearly as fun as getting drunk. It was an intense kind of _tingle_ under every inch of his skin, one that he always felt especially in his head and sinuses. Like snorting soda water. He let out a long, undignified _"glaaahhhhhhhrgh"_ as the awful sensation squeezed him in a vise – then the room stopped spinning, his thoughts stopped running in lazy zig-zags, and the ceiling snapped back into focus. He wasn’t at all sure it was an improvement. He was left with only a lingering disappointment and the usual sour taste on the back of his tongue.

A glance to his right showed that Aziraphale had apparently followed suit. The angel looked like he had bitten into a lemon, and was looking down at his still-full glass with an expression of distaste. 

It seemed like too much effort to sit up, so Crowley just stayed there on his back, arms splayed out. The anger that had sustained him all day had started to wane a bit, taking his energy with it. “I haven’t asked you yet. What do _you_ think? About the… offer?” He nodded to the scattered papers. 

Aziraphale gingerly set the glass down next to him, like a bomb that might go off. “It doesn’t matter what I think, love. I can’t even imagine- I have no idea what I would do in your position. It’s your choice, completely.” 

“Yes yes, but it matters to _me._ I want to know your take on all this.” He hesitated for a moment before venturing something he’d been wondering about. “I thought you would be more... eager for the idea.”

The angel mulled that over for a moment, frowning down at his manicured hands. “I would have been, once upon a time.” He sighed heavily. “But I like to think I’m a bit wiser now. I chose you just as you are, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you for the world. But if you did change, I’d love you just as much then, too. No matter the colour of your wings, you'd still be _you._ ” He looked up and smiled, and his entire face brightened as he reached out towards him. “So in a very real sense, my dear, it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to me.” 

A large part of the knot that had been twisting in Crowley’s chest for the last few hours unraveled. He hadn't even realized how much that had worried him. The entire situation suddenly felt less dire. He rolled over onto his side and took Aziraphale’s hand, stroking it with his thumb. 

“If you want to forget all this, pretend it never happened, that would be just fine,” Aziraphale continued earnestly, and kissed his palm. “We can just take our pardons, and my retirement, and go on with our lives; I can protect you from the demons if they ever decide to get- unruly again. And we’re safe from the other angels now, whether they like it or not. They might be...bastards,” he winced a little, probably on reflex, “but they are all soldiers at heart. They’ll do what they’re told when it’s a direct order.” 

“Kind of went wrong with you, then, didn’t they?” Crowley smiled down at his hand, brushing the familiar contours of the serpent ring. His fingers were so soft, with their neatly trimmed and polished nails, the only calluses present from holding a pen. Not a soldier’s hand at all. Living proof that not _all_ angels were the same. 

Aziraphale blushed and looked primly pleased at that, as if he had been given an extraordinary compliment, which of course was how he had meant it. 

“And if I accepted?” Crowley asked quietly after a moment. 

The angel sighed. “It would be one less side to worry about," he admitted. "And we would _certainly_ not go stay in heaven, no indeed. We live here, this is our home, no matter what happens. I wouldn’t give that up for anything. It’s all so unprecedented that I don’t know for certain what the future would bring, but...together _surely_ we could handle their nonsense from the inside.” His eyes flashed. “Either way, angel or demon, no one is going to tell us how to live, ever again,” he said, and the sudden furious determination in his mild face took Crowley aback. “You’ve been terribly ill-used, and I won’t stand for it any longer. No _more_.” His free hand made a fist, and it was somehow genuinely intimidating and adorable at once. 

Touched, Crowley hid a smile and lifted Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it. “My very own guardian angel. If they have any sense they'll all be quaking in their boots.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, expression mellowing again, and scooted a bit closer towards him. “I just want you to do what makes _you_ happy, my love. I’ll be happy regardless; all that matters to me is that we aren’t separated.” 

_But we still could be_ , _someday,_ Crowley thought. That terrible knowledge had haunted the deeper parts of his mind for the last year, all the more so since their last demonic encounter. The knowledge that they were just a discorporation away from being parted forever. That after all this, he could still so easily lose him. Even without supernatural conflict, human bodies were fragile things. He pressed Aziraphale’s hand to his lips again and held it there, thinking. 

“I have an idea,” he said at last, and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Let me take you to dinner. Anywhere you like. Can’t think of a better way to celebrate being officially exonerated, can you?” 

The angel’s face lit up, exactly as he’d hoped. “Oh, that’s a _splendid_ idea. We skipped breakfast today, didn't we? _And_ lunch." He looked scandalized at the thought. "That won't do at all.” With a grunt he stood up and brushed himself off, straightening his bow tie and smoothing down his very rumpled waistcoat. Then as Crowley lay there watching, he went around and briskly gathered up all the scattered pages of the angelic contract from the floor. "We have all the time in the world for you to think about this, so there's no sense in fussing about it now." He piled them into a neat stack and shut them firmly away in the top drawer of his desk, with a satisfied nod. “There. They’ll keep there just as well as anywhere for the time being,” he said.

"Yeah, good idea." 

Aziraphale turned back to him and brushed off his hands. "Shall we, oh love of my life?" He offered him his hand with an impish smile. "For the moment absolutely no one is trying to kill us, and I daresay we should take full advantage of the situation, don't you?" 

* * *

They ended up going to one of their favourite seafood restaurants down in Milford on Sea, a familiar choice that did a lot to set them both at ease. Watching Aziraphale enjoy his excellent three-course dinner with such unadulterated relish was probably the best therapy he could ask for. The angel clearly considered their problems solved one way or another- he radiated a relief and pure joy that couldn’t be feigned, and it was catching. Crowley found himself smiling throughout the evening in spite of himself.

Aziraphale seemed determined to not give him the chance to brood, either. Once they returned home from dinner he immediately took him by the hand and led him straight upstairs to bed, though it was not very late. He gently but insistently undressed him piece by piece, pushed him down onto the thick mattress...and put an admirable effort into making him forget about anything else. And for a significant time Crowley was indeed at peace. 

But it was impossible to forget for long.

Once all the exceedingly pleasant distractions were over, Crowley lay there next to his sleeping husband in the tangled sheets, uncharacteristically wide awake late into the night. Staring up at the vaulted ceiling beams and pondering the events of the day, twirling the gold ring on his finger around and around and around, while his thoughts did the same like a maddened hamster on a wheel. 

The wall clock struck two, and sleep was still lightyears away. He rubbed at his eyes with an internal groan. Bugger. Insomnia was _not_ usually his thing. The last time he’d had trouble sleeping like this was in those first few days living at the bookshop, when he could barely close his eyes for fear that he would wake back in the cold reality of his lonely flat. 

It wasn't fear that kept him awake this time. He wasn’t sure what exactly to call it. He felt so many different, conflicting things that he thought his head might simply explode.

There was still anger, for sure, overwhelming anger: at God, for the way he had been treated – like a fucking pawn on a board! – and at the bastard angels who had just tried to kill him and Aziraphale. There was equally overwhelming relief and yes, grudging gratitude, for the Divine intervention that had spared them both. There was six thousand years' worth of sorrow and self-loathing, the certain knowledge that his damnation was absolute, that redemption was beyond his grasp. And confusion, oh, Satan, so much _confusion_ , to learn that he’d been entirely wrong on that front. Uncertainty whether he even wanted that redemption now that it was offered. That damn document downstairs. A chance to make peace with his past, or just a new way of throwing himself into the fire?

It all churned together into a roiling storm inside of him and made his stomach writhe. 

All those lonely years. All the unanswered silent pleas to the dark. All the fucking things he’d _done._ Not all of them had been as benign as the tomatoes. He’d never even asked to be a demon, yet all at once he was supposed to enjoy hurting people. To enjoy giving pain. 

The pleasantly warm room was suddenly suffocating. He carefully slid out from under the covers, out of bed, and stood up. He crept naked and soft-footed across the bedroom as quickly as he could to the window on the opposite wall, the kind of latticed window that swings outward in two parts. This one happened to look out over the back garden and provide an excellent view of the sky. He shoved it open with a gasp of relief and gulped huge breaths of fresh night air, eyes closed, letting that air leech away some of the heat from his fevered skin. The mild July breeze felt almost cold by comparison. It invigorated and anchored him in the here and now, which was good, because against his will he found himself doing what he never, ever, _ever_ did. 

He found himself thinking about The Fall. 

It was the kind of memory that was impossible to forget yet impossible to look at, save for in brief disjointed flashes, lest it swamp him and drag him under. Everything else in the Before part of his mind was a vague blur, but that...that particular memory’s edges had not even dulled with time.

Endless falling through endless dark, black as pitch, blacker than he had thought dark could even be. Falling for what felt like years. Growing colder and colder and colder the longer he fell, and then, abruptly, when he thought he must surely shatter like glass from the cold – searing heat. Agonizing pain, so much pain. The horrible smell of rotten eggs. A lake of seething flames the colour of sapphires, beautiful and terrible, burning, charring his sensitive wings, eating away at his body and mind both... 

And then, after, demonic hands around his wrists and throat, holding him down as he struggled. Mocking laughter. Cruel glinting eyes in the dark. A bar of iron glowing red-hot with more than natural heat, wrought in the twisted sigil of a snake, coming closer and closer to his face. A new name whispered in his ear as the metal pressed down, searing. Feeling his celestial form contort and stretch as it was forced into a new shape… 

Crowley opened his eyes to find that he was leaning nearly to the waist out of the second-story window, hunched over the sill with hands pressed to his face. Great blooms of heat were flaring out from his core, covering his entire body with sweat and raising goosebumps on his skin. He shook his head violently to dispel the images and grabbed at the windowframe to brace himself. Sharp wood edges bit into his palms; he squeezed harder and focused on the good ordinary discomfort, heart slamming in his chest, as he impatiently tried to control his breathing and shove the panic away. This was not helpful. 

_Unworthy. Outcast. Fallen. Forsaken._ Those words had bounced around in his head for thousands and thousands of years. Losing the love of the Almighty like that, being so suddenly and horrifically discarded, had broken things in him that he didn’t even know existed. It had left a kind of hollow void deep down in his soul that had only just begun to heal over the last year. But if Aziraphale‘s theory was right – and that was a _big_ 'if' – then he had never actually lost that love and approval at all. 

The possibility put such a terrible, wonderful, confusing pang of hope and rage in him that his legs went liquid- he sank down to the floor in front of the window and put his head between his knees. The thought that She might have let all that happen to him, deliberately, as a piece of some huge, stupid... Rube Goldberg machine of a Plan, to stop what the rest of Heaven and Hell was scheming…

But then, that was assuming Aziraphale even had the right of it in the first place, and he wasn’t at all convinced that he did. Maybe none of it had been Planned after all. Maybe he had simply saved the Almighty’s favourite soft, bastardly angel enough times that She’d decided he deserved a break at last. Frankly, that seemed far more plausible than the idea that he was somehow… special. 

But then, Aziraphale _was_ right in that Falling had brought them together. The most hideous and wonderful things in his life, hand in hand. And Aziraphale was worth Falling for a thousand times over, no question. And he _was_ glad that Armageddon was stopped; hadn’t he wanted to do just that? And he certainly didn’t wish that he still lived up there… 

_Fuck_. 

Around and round and round the hamster wheel went. He sat there aching and unmoving on the floor in the pool of starlight, head in his hands, while his arse went numb and the room grew cooler. 

_Starlight..._ He raised his head and stared up at the sky, sweaty hands gripping the windowsill as he pulled himself up to his knees. Searching through the familiar constellations with practiced speed, until- there. There, in the East, was Aziraphale’s star, shining bright as ever. A point of pale blue fire, burning steady and unchanging in the black; his own North Star. He had looked to it for solace on so many lonely and wretched nights over the years that seeing it now was still weirdly comforting, even with the real thing sleeping mere feet away from him in bed. It was something constant and solid to fix upon, and it calmed him the way it always had. The way Aziraphale always did. 

He sighed and relaxed against the windowsill, resting his chin on his folded arms.

His beautiful, kind angel. With his scholar’s hands, his books, his fussy old-fashioned clothes; his blatant hedonism and stubborn love of all things human and decadent. The very picture of quiet, steady defiance. Who would have thought that tartan could be such a badge of rebellion? The thought actually nudged a faint smile out of him. His unlikely other half. From the moment he set eyes on him on that Wall it was as if gravity itself had shifted, as if his world had been simply waiting for him to show up. 

He gazed fondly up at the gently twinkling star - 

\- and experienced a moment of clarity, pure as a bell tone. 

It didn’t much _matter_ anymore, whether he had Fallen due to accident or Grand Design. Whether this new offer to return was an olive branch, reward, or insult. Whatever the Almighty's Plan or motivations, his own agenda had not changed one iota in over six thousand years: to hold Aziraphale close to his heart and never let go. 

He looked over at the sleeping figure in the bed, suddenly very much wanting to join him.

Of all the endless potential disasters and hardships the universe had to offer, only one was truly unbearable. He could live with being Fallen. He could live with the hazards of bastardly Management, with risk of divine wrath and eternal torment. But losing Aziraphale... _that_ he could not bear. His nightmares had long since traded burning lakes for burning bookshops, and having experienced both he could say with confidence which was the greater horror. 

_I would Burn for you. So...why not Rise instead?_

He didn’t give a shit whether he would make a satisfactory angel or not, but angelhood would put him beyond the reach of Beelzebub and the rest forever. They would never again have to worry about being parted by either accident or demonic revenge. Mere discorporation would never again be a threat. And he would be better equipped to protect him, from whatever might threaten. 

In that light, the choice was abruptly incredibly easy. It was no choice at all. No matter what else came with it...Aziraphale was enough. 

At that thought the storm of emotions stilled. Peace washed over him. He straightened and took a deep, slow breath, tilting his face up to the starlight with eyes closed. The night air suddenly tasted a bit sweeter. 

_And...I could build things again, if I wanted to._

The thought came unbidden, out of nowhere, and sent a sweet, razor-sharp ache through him. Create things again. He couldn’t even remember what that was like. Like the dream of a dream, he had only the cold echo of a memory left, a fading imprint of joy in the deep recesses of his mind. Most of the time he simply chose to forget entirely, as with most things related to Before. 

He knelt there on the floor in front of the window, hands in his lap, and gazed up at the serenely flickering night sky. He had all the true beauty he needed, right here on earth, but...he did miss the stars sometimes. Maybe he could have both. 

Was _this all part of Your Plan, after all_? he asked silently of the heavens. _Was all this shit really part of something larger? Something necessary? Do you care, and have you truly been watching out for us all along?_

The stars continued their distant glittering, wisps of cloud drifting across the thin sliver of a crescent moon. In the distance an owl hooted softly.

The Almighty, as usual, was silent. 

That just figured. 

Fine. In that silence, he would draw his own conclusions and make his own choices, as he had always done. 

He carefully shut the window and drew the curtains. He crept silently back across the shadowy room and slipped back into bed, and wrapped Aziraphale up in his arms. The angel stirred as he did and twisted to look at him. “Are you alright, love?” he murmured sleepily. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, and and found that indeed he was. He exhaled softly against the back of his neck. His husband’s naked body was plush and comforting against his front, and he still smelled like the cinnamon cake he had eaten for dessert. Their tartan sheets were soft against his skin, the mattress deep and inviting. He sighed again and held him tighter. “Just fine, my darling. Go back to sleep.” 

* * *


	14. Renovatio

* * *

The next time Crowley opened his eyes it was late morning, and he was lying curled against his husband’s chest. Aziraphale had an arm snug around him, and when he saw that he was awake he didn’t make a single comment about the late hour. He only smiled and kissed him on the forehead with a cheerful “Good morning, sleepyhead.” If he knew or suspected anything about his long, sleepless night he kept it to himself, and only handed him a ready-made cup of tea from the bedside table with a smug expression. 

Aziraphale must have noticed that he was quieter than usual, too, but he didn’t pry. Once they were dressed he sat him down at the dining table and insisted on cooking him breakfast, and for once Crowley did not put up a fight. Nerves had shrunk his stomach into a hard unappetizing ball, but he ate every single bite of admittedly excellent eggs and bacon with as much gusto as he could manage. He’d sooner make himself ill than let Aziraphale think he didn’t like his cooking.

Now, food eaten, dishes pushed aside, they were sitting shoulder to shoulder at the sunlit wooden table in comfortable silence. A common scene nowadays. The large window by the table overlooked the back garden, where the many plants were currently in verdant summer bloom, but today neither of them were paying attention to that view. Aziraphale had a small hardback book open in front of him and one hand holding Crowley’s on his knee, and was lost in that private little world he disappeared to whenever he read. Crowley sat with chin resting in his other hand, perfectly content to just watch him.

Oblivious to his scrutiny, the angel sipped his morning cocoa as he leaned forward attentively over the book, lips moving silently. He was apparently absorbed in some especially exciting part of the story, for his grip on his hand tightened and shifted slightly higher on his thigh every time he turned a page. So intent was his concentration that he didn’t even seem to notice. 

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek and resisted the urge to kiss him, and break the spell. Watching Aziraphale at the things he loved was better than any movie. His angel had the decidedly human gift of making the non-essential things in life seem most essential of all. 

He indulged himself for a few minutes longer before finally deciding that it was time. Much as he would love to sit here and drink him in all day, this morning for once he had bigger things to address, and at this point he was only stalling. He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. _Here goes nothing_. 

“So. I’ve been thinking,” he said, breaking the silence. 

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale glanced up from his book and smiled at him, teasing, but quickly sobered when he saw the dead serious expression on his face. He immediately closed the book and set it aside without even marking his place. “What is it?” 

Crowley took his hand in both of his, gripping a little tighter than strictly necessary. To his dismay his own palms were slightly damp. He had spent the entire long, sleepless night thinking this through, but it still felt like a leap to say the words.

“I’m going to sign.” 

Azirphale stared at him, mouth open in a little “o” of surprise. It was clearly not what he had expected. “What- You- Are you certain? Darling, you really don’t need to decide now, there’s no urgency. I thought you would want to take at least a few days, or even weeks to think it over...” 

“Nah, I’m certain. I’ve made up my mind.” Crowley reassured him. Hearing Aziraphale’s anxious concern weirdly made him feel a lot less nervous about it. “My skull is going to pop if I think it over any more; a full week and I’d go barking mad." He shook his head and continued before the angel could say anything else. “Look, we both know that I’m just a discorporation away from Hell,” he said bluntly. “I never got a pardon from _that_ lot. Humans die in stupid ways all the time, and I didn’t go through all this just to lose you forever if a television falls on me or, or something. And I couldn’t bear it if- Anyway,” he waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not doing it under duress.” 

“Well…alright then.” Aziraphale laid his other hand atop the rest, and there was an undercurrent of excitement in the motion now. “I just wanted to be sure it’s really what you want.”

“It is. But.” He set his jaw. He’d thought long and hard about this. “I won’t play their games. If I didn’t like what the others are doing, I’d try to stop it.” 

Aziraphale snorted, a very un-angelic sound. “Well, yes. What precisely do you think we’ve been doing for the last twelve years?” 

“And don’t think I would start to dress like you,” he warned. “If I come back, I’ll do it my way. If She wants me, She can get used to black.” 

“I’m sure that’s fine, dear.” Aziraphale was smiling again, and clearly trying not to. “There is no _official_ angelic dress code, after all.” 

“And I would sign as ‘Anthony J. Crowley’. I chose it; that’s mine, it’s who I am.” 

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.” 

“And if I ever see Gabriel or Michael any of that group again I’m still going to make their lives miserable in any way I can,” he continued stubbornly. 

“That’s...hm.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, and an echo of cold anger flickered over his face. “Actually, that’s quite alright with me, too.” 

He breathed out. “And you wouldn’t want to go live up there?” 

“I should say not. Not for _anything_.” He shook his blond head emphatically. 

Crowley pursed his own lips, nodding, and looked back down at their entwined hands. His pulse was thrumming, and he felt slightly lightheaded with relief. “Right. Right, then. If that’s all okay with you....that’s that. Being an angel can’t be worse than being a demon, all things considered.” 

“Certainly not. I’m an angel too, after all.” 

“Well, yeah.” He looked up, smiling, and reached out to tweak his bow tie. Blue tartan today. “But I’ve learned to look past that.” 

Aziraphale smiled and shoved him a little. “You’re really sure about this?” The angel’s face was open as a book, full of mingled excitement and happiness and worry for him, and his concern warmed Crowley to the toes. He hooked two fingers through the bow tie and pulled him in to kiss him, taking his time about it. 

“I’m sure about _you,_ my angel. And this is my best chance to never, ever lose you.” He shrugged one shoulder. In the end, the decision had been very simple after all. “Like I said, can’t be worse than working for Hell, can it. And I’m sure there will be some brilliant opportunities to cause trouble from the inside. Couldn’t pass that up, now could I?” The idea made him grin. “Between the two of us, what chance would they have?” 

Aziraphale grinned back, the worry falling away from his face as he did. “What chance indeed.” He abruptly stood and threw his arms around him. Before Crowley knew what was happening he found himself being picked up, dipped back and thoroughly kissed. The kiss was warm and full of joy and relief, and the enthusiasm, as always, was catching. He felt every muscle in his body soften and go limp, and he sighed into his mouth. God, how he loved him. It was impossible to be anything but stupidly happy when he held him. Now that the decision was fully made and declared he could at least relax. 

Aziraphale finally pulled them both upright and set him on his feet.

“I’m...glad you’re happy about it,” Crowley managed breathlessly. 

“Of _course_ I’m happy! I won’t have to fear losing you either. That's all I ever cared about.” Aziraphale beamed and hugged him again, rocking side to side, and this time neither of them let go. “When?”

He didn’t need to ask what he meant. “Today. No sense putting it off.” He pulled him closer against him and pressed his nose into his hair, breathing him in, ignoring the nervous lurch in his stomach. “But not just yet. There are some things I want to do first.” 

Aziraphale sighed, an utterly happy sound, and laid his head on his shoulder. “Goodness. After all this time I’ve finally grown used to the idea of loving a demon, and now you’re really going to go and make me respectable again?” 

“Ha.” Crowley felt his own smile bend into a smirk. He kissed the silky soft hair, then trailed his mouth down to kiss the delicate skin behind his ear, the place he knew always got a reaction. “I promise you, my lovely angel, we will never be anything _near_ respectable if I have anything to say about it.” He ran his tongue over the same spot, then again, and reached up to unbutton the collar of his shirt under the bow tie. He put his lips on his neck and kept working open the buttons, kissing each new patch of bare skin as it was uncovered, and slowly walked him backwards until he was pushed up against the wall next to the table. “Never, ever, _ever_ ,” he whispered in his ear, and sank down to kneel at his feet. He grasped his hips with both hands and kept kissing him, only in a far more interesting place. 

Aziraphale leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. “Oh, um, thank- thank heavens for that. You had me seriously worried for a second.” 

“Pfft.” Crowley wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his face into his soft middle, eyes closed. He felt a sudden lump rise in his throat.All the things he had mulled over through the long night, all the things he had whispered to the back of Aziraphale’s sleeping head as he held him, welled up inside and pushed at his lips, fighting to get out.

“I wanted to say that...I'm-” the words stuck in his throat, the way they often did. He swallowed and with a mighty effort forced himself to go on. “About what you said yesterday. I'm glad everything happened too, because it led me to you. I don’t have anything to offer you but my love, but everything I am is yours forever. All these years- You were the only-" He made a small frustrated sound. 

"It's alright, love." A gentle hand touched his head.

"No, what I want to say is, you loved me when no one else did. You're perfect and...you already make me whole. Not this new development, but you. I just-” He winced and clenched his eyes shut tighter, forehead pressed against his stomach. _Dammit_. This was why he had written out his wedding vows. Trying to say anything like this to his face always left him stammering like a hopeless ass.

He gave up on speaking and just untucked Aziraphale’s shirt, reaching up under it even as he smoothed a reverent hand down the front of his trousers, over the peak already forming there. He kissed it, and was rewarded with a quick indrawn breath. God, he was so beautiful. He kissed it again, with all the unhurried care he took in kissing his lips, and this time the breath was more like a gasp. It set the blood thundering in his ears, and this time the words raced straight out of his heart without bothering to stop at his brain. “I don't know what comes next, but I know with absolute certainty that you'll always be the best thing in my life, and I’ll never, ever deserve you.” 

“Oh, darling. What blasphemy is this?” Aziraphale’s voice was gently scolding, and he began stroking his hair the way he always did when trying to comfort him. “ _Don’t_ talk like that. You have always deserved all the love I have to give. It's me who's lucky to have _you_.”

“Mm.” Crowley only kissed his groin again in response, and kept kissing as he undid the button and very, very slowly drew down the fly, inch by inch, opening it carefully, eagerly, like the final reveal of one of Aziraphale’s magic tricks. His quickening breath caught in his throat as he peeled open the trousers, equally slowly, and pressed his cheek against the gorgeous bulge there. This time there was a small moan above him. He slid his hands back around his hips and looked up. 

Aziraphale was gazing down at him, lips parted, blue eyes intent and full of growing heat **.** The morning sun brightened the blond hair to pure white, and the golden rays streaming through the window next to them caught the swirling motes of dust to create a sparkling, glowing aura around his head and shoulders. His magnificent angel. His temple. His perfect North Star. More beautiful than the heavens. As glorious as he had been that day on the Wall, and still the most _wonderful_ thing he had ever seen. Too perfect for the likes of him, yet...here he was. It stuttered his heart in his chest and stole his breath, the way it did every. Single. Time.

There was something almost painfully erotic about being on his knees before him.

“Maybe it is blasphemy,” he said quietly, and closed his eyes. “But for the moment I’m still Fallen. And I want to commit one more blasphemy before that changes.” He dared to touch him again, stroked both hands reverently up the backs of his thighs and pressed his parted lips against the hard length of him, against the intriguing heat just behind the thin fabric. He kept his mouth there and exhaled, softly, feeling the warm bulge grow even harder. His fingers tightened, gripping, as did the ones in his hair. Sometimes, actions could speak when words failed. “So for my last act as a demon, I would like to worship you, my angel. If you’ll let me.”

As it turned out, he _would._

  
  


* * *

“All I have to do is sign?” Crowley asked.

They stood in the now miraculously-restored and tidied sitting room, in front of Aziraphale’s desk. Both were nervously eyeing the stack of documents sitting there as if it were some strange and wild animal. The whole thing had the vague mood of a faceoff.

Aziraphale bent close to peer at the signature line through those absurd little glasses of his. “Yes, it looks that way. I can feel the power humming off it from here.”

They had gone over the contract countless times since that morning (well, since the afternoon, by the time they were no longer, er, occupied), but it had turned out to be a suspiciously simple document, considering. It was almost irritating, how clean it was. Not really any fine print to speak of, no elaborate terms of service, no barbed clauses, not even any sneaky addendums. In short, none of the things that demons always made sure to include in every single contract _they_ could get their grimy influence on. Not even any language about jurisdiction _,_ which was a relief _._ No real strings at all that he could find. Most of the pages past the first one had turned out to be rows and rows of signatures, of what looked like every ranking angel in heaven. _Must have been one hell of an interesting staff meeting,_ Crowley thought with dark amusement. 

The rest was simply describing what exactly the rank of Principality entailed, as if he wasn’t already familiar with _that_. It included a long list of extenuating circumstances he could be called upon to assist humanity with, in times of dire need, being an official “guardian of the earth” and all (as the contract referred to it). The term still triggered a reflexive gag. Aziraphale had assured him that it was no more than he himself could be called for, even in retirement. Some things were apparently part and parcel of the rank.

It was something of a consolation to know that he at least would be the same type of angel as Aziraphale. He hadn't remembered _that_ detail from Before, but then most of it was blurry. 

He peered down at the line again. He had read it over so many times that he didn’t even need to see it to know what it said, but he read it again anyway: “ _...including but not limited to Pandemic, Natural Disaster, Imminent Destruction by Meteor, (Re-)Election of Certain Unspecified Political Figures, Global Warming, and Devil and/or Demon Incursion, during which time Your Services will be required AND rendered for the protection of the human race in service of God, DBA Yahweh, DBA Elohim, DBA The Almighty, DBA...”_

It had gone on for a while from there. Pretty standard stuff, really.

He had dressed himself for the occasion in his best, most demonically black attire. The snakeskin boots were polished to a high shine, his black jacket and jeans were fresh-pressed by Aziraphale himself, his tie knotted at just the right careless height. It was kind of funny that now, on the brink of changing something that he had never even wanted, it was a point of stubborn pride to face it looking as un-angelic as possible. If he _was_ going to be an angel, he figured, then he was damn well going to be a stylish one.

He sighed, scowling down at the paper. He tapped his booted foot nervously against the floor. In his right hand he held a sleek black matte pen, his favourite, the fancy kind that could write upside down and underwater, and he rolled it back and forth between suddenly-sweaty fingers. His heart was pounding with excitement and anxiety and a thousand other things all jumbled together, like a dissonant piano chord.

Soft arms slid around his waist from behind and hugged him close. “It’s going to be fine, love,” Aziraphale murmured. “I promise.” He kissed his cheek, glasses poking his ear, and with a final comforting squeeze he let him go.

Crowley would have really preferred that he stay, but there wouldn’t have been much dignity in that.

 _Don't be a coward. Get on with it,_ he thought.

 _Oh, shut up,_ he replied a second later. 

He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Right, then.” He turned and reached out to his husband, needing the reassurance. “Ready?” The angel was now wearing his characteristic tartan bow tie and velvet waistcoat, but no jacket. Crowley noticed that he had tucked one of the crimson-striped purple flowers from the garden room into his pocket next to the watch chain. He looked perfect and comfortable and familiar, constant as the sky, and everything he could ever want.

Aziraphale took his hand and grinned at him, eyes bright, and the expression turned uncharacteristically fierce. “Heaven isn’t going to know what hit it.”

And just like that, his nerves evaporated and vanished entirely. Whatever came next, whatever twists and turns the future held, they would face it together, as always. That was all that mattered. Everything else was just a footnote on the page. His heart lifted, and he kissed the angel’s knuckles with a flourish.

“Damn right.” He grinned back, equally fierce. “May God help them all.”

Holding tight to Aziraphale’s hand, he bent and scrawled his true name on the vacant line.

* * *

Crowley straightened and set the pen down. They both stood there for a moment, then two, holding their breaths, hands clasped between them. Crowley’s heart was pounding, though not exactly from fear.

Nothing happened.

A full minute passed, and still nothing. They both looked around, but everything seemed more or less the same as before. A bird trilled loudly outside the window.

“Huh,” Crowley said. He looked up at the ceiling, half-expecting to see God Herself crouching there, or something. He looked back down at the pen, then at Aziraphale, feeling a little sheepish. “Well, I admit, I was sort of expecting something slightly more dramati-”

A beam of utterly blinding golden-white light struck him through the chest like a spear, knocking him back off his feet and transfixing him in place. He only had time to catch a single glimpse of Aziraphale’s wide, shocked eyes before his entire body caught fire, incandescent – then they were thrown violently apart as the entire world disappeared in a searing flood of white fire.

Sound, sight, breath was obliterated. Time stretched,

and stopped. 

He was frozen between heartbeats; he couldn’t feel his human body at all. He couldn’t feel anything except the light as it rushed through him in an unstoppable torrent, consuming. It filled him and filled him until he blazed with it, working deep within until it found the jagged cracks in his soul, pouring relentlessly down through those cracks to where the spark of Hellfire had smoldered for his entire living memory.

It did not so much extinguish that spark as obliterate it, like a river overwhelms a raindrop. He _felt_ it go out. It left a vacuum that was immediately flooded with an entirely new burning: deeper, cleaner, a glory so intense that it was nearly agony. He would have screamed in shock if he still had a throat to scream with, but he was only a bright speck in the void.

**_WELL_ ** **_DONE_ , **

**_MY CHILD_ **

The whisper shook through his consciousness, that same impossibly ancient yet familiar Voice that had spoken during the confrontation with Michael, and his entire being thrummed in response like a plucked guitar string. The Voice was _not_ full of anger this time, but equally absolute, resonating with an approval so vast that it took his nonexistent breath away.

Now the flood of light receded, and he sensed the cracks begin to seal, needles of brilliance shining through from within, stitching him back together. A final jolt, and it was done- he was left whole. Whole, but not seamless: he could still feel the places where the cracks had been, could see them outlined in fiery gold, closed but not vanished. 

Now he floated suspended in the nothingness, yet it was not empty. Light and dark meshed and joined, bright images flickered, galaxies spun past his vision too fast to look at. Stars blazed to life and died and blazed again, more than he could possibly count. Like a door opening in his mind, he suddenly knew that he could create them if he wanted to, set them spinning with a touch. He rememberedhow _._

He remembered all the stars he had built. He remembered their names. He remembered how they had felt in his hands as he shaped them. 

He _remembered._

Had he been able to, he would have cried. 

Even amongst all the glory pouring through his mind he became aware of another, final door approaching, this one seething with other memories, memories of other Names _,_ other memories of Before _._ Memories that could change everything, unlock things that-

_No._

In the blackness, still burning, he reached out and caught hold of the single thought with all his might, and his reckless tumble through time and nothingness faltered in response.

_No. I don’t want an entire stranger shoved into my head. Let it be. It’s enough._

There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity. He supposed, technically, in that timeless place it could have been.

And then, somehow, the impression of a vast, long-suffering _sigh_.

The fire that was not fire came together in a final dazzling rush, and extinguished- and everything went black.

* * *

Vision returned as the light faded, and Aziraphale came back to himself, blinking and looking around. As far as he could tell only an instant had gone by. He was sitting on the hard wood floor right where he had fallen, posterior aching, only a couple feet away from where he had stood. One hand was still flung out as he tried to keep his grip on... _Crowley_.

Crowley lay sprawled on the floor by the desk, one arm above his head. His eyes were closed, but otherwise looked exactly as he had- except that he wasn’t breathing.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale struggled upright and crawled over to him on his hands and knees. “Oh, stars. Oh my God.” He knelt there and scooped him up and cradled him in his arms, looking desperately into his face. He didn’t look any different. Had something gone wrong? Was it some kind of trick after all? Had they somehow, after all this, made a terrible mistake? “Darling, please wake up,” he begged, jostling him, but his head only lolled like a rag doll. The beloved face was inhumanly still, empty. A single tear had trailed from one closed eye into his auburn hair. “Sweetheart, please, please-” He pressed his ear to the skinny chest, listening, but it was silent as a tomb. _No._ He choked back despair and prepared to try to use his power, to heal him, even though he could already tell that there was nothing wrong with his body. For all the good it would do if the Almighty had decided to take him away-

Like a switch being flipped, the heartbeat abruptly thudded back into life, so loud that it startled him. Crowley heaved a deep, deep breath, then he was stirring, chest rising and falling easily again. 

“Oh Dear God, _thank you._ ” He nearly cried with relief for the second time in nearly as many days, but settled for kissing his husband all over his face, smothering him with kisses. His throat was so tight that he could barely speak. ”Darling, are you alright? Look at me.”

Crowley groaned and slowly opened his eyes, face disoriented and stricken, and Aziraphale sucked in a small involuntary gasp.

His husband’s eyes were no longer the slitted reptilian eyes that he had known for six thousand years. The pupils were now a normal round human shape and size, like his own.

The irises were pure, shimmering gold. They gleamed like freshly minted coins, catching the late afternoon sun and scattering bits of light. 

Crowley blinked a few times and looked up at him, scintillating eyes slowly coming into focus on his face. They widened in recognition, and his dazed expression melted into a familiar smile. “I know you,” he whispered, and reached up to touch his cheek. 

Aziraphale laughed and took his hand, kissing the palm and pressing it against his face. “I should _hope_ so. You big idiot. Don’t scare me like that.” He smiled down at him and kissed his forehead. "Are you okay?" 

Crowley just gazed dreamily at him, smile lingering on his face. Without a word he slid his long arms up around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Such an overpowering rush of love and joy poured from him now that there could be no doubt as to his answer; it mingled with Aziraphale's own happiness and amplified it until it was nearly unbearable. He moaned and threw himself into the embrace with all his might, knocking heaven's newest Principality back onto the floor with a thump, and for the first time ever he did not have to mind his strength. His newly-durable husband was solid and so very alive in his arms; his human heart pounded against his chest as if trying to make up for the beats it had recently lost. Minutes passed, but Crowley only tightened his arms and kept kissing him like it was the last chance they'd ever get. 

At long last Crowley loosened his grip, but didn't let go. He just held him there, unmoving, foreheads touching. "Hey angel. It's good to see you," he murmured quietly. 

Aziraphale beamed down at him, fighting happy tears now. A few escaped, but he didn't consider it a loss. "It's good to see you too, darling. Welcome back." There was so much more he could say, so many things he had thought he would be curious about, but in that moment he didn't care about any of it just yet. He cupped his husband's angular face and kissed him again, softer this time, brushing fingertips over the sharp line of his jaw. There were two things he _did_ need to say, though, two desperately important things. "I love you. I'm so glad I didn't lose you."

"Never." Crowley's voice was quiet, but firm.

He gave him a final hug, then slid an arm under his narrow shoulders and lifted him up to sit next to him.

Crowley groaned and swayed a little, but managed to stay more or less upright under his own steam. He braced himself on both arms, hunch-shouldered, and blinked blearily around at the sitting room as if expecting to find himself somewhere else. "Wow. I have to say, that was just..." He chuckled and and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't really know what I was expecting to happen, but that wasn't it. Something involving more celestial harmonies, I think. Fewer bolts of holy lightning." He straightened a bit and rubbed at his chest. 

"Did it hurt?" Aziraphale asked anxiously. He had intended to wait on all questions, but he couldn't help asking that. He couldn't bear the thought of him going through any more pain. 

"No," Crowley reassured him quickly. He reached for him and took his hand. "Not like that. Not like Falling at all. It was...intense, but good. It felt clean, like..." His expression softened. "Like being reborn, I suppose." 

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, swallowing against the joyful tightness in his throat, and was startled to realise that his husband's skin was no longer burning hot. For as long as he had known him he always felt like he was running a bad fever, but now his callused hand was merely warm. Beautifully, humanly warm. "How do you feel now?" 

Crowley blinked again and looked down at his body, as if surprised to find it was all there. “Good, I think." His voice was gaining strength, losing the dazed quality, and he nodded more confidently. "I actually feel really good. Lighter. Also just really...strange.” He rubbed at his chest, and his gaze drew inward, sharpening. “The Hellfire’s gone,” he breathed, eyes widening in awe. “Holy shit...holy fucking shit, I can feel it.”

“Er...” Aziraphale opened his mouth, then shut it. It probably wasn’t the best time to use that particular expression, but he decided to keep that to himself. 

"It's _gone_ ," Crowley repeated in shock, still grasping his chest. "Wow. I didn't realize how much I _hated_ that. This feels so weird. Good weird," he amended hastily, glancing back up at him with a smile. "Definitely good weird. Speaking of good weird..." He looked down at their clasped hands and kissed his knuckles, and a slow smile spread across his face. "You feel a lot warmer than usual." He leaned towards him and kissed the side of his neck, lingering, and the smile broadened into a mischievous grin. "Oh yeah. I can definitely get used to this." He slid an arm around his waist and kept kissing him, growing more enthusiastic by the second. 

Aziraphale laughed and hugged him as tightly as he could. Fresh happiness was bursting through his chest like fireworks, threatening to make him cry again. "My ridiculous serpent. You're clearly feeling better, so let's at least move to the sofa. This floor isn't very forgiving and my knees are starting to object." He helped Crowley struggle to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist to steady him. It seemed to take the former demon a minute to remember how legs worked.

Once both solidly upright, by unspoken agreement they turned as one to look at the document sitting on the desk.

Crowley had signed in plain black ink. But now the cursive words _Anthony J. Crowley_ were emblazoned there on the paper in gold, pulsing with a faint shifting light.

Crowley leaned in and prodded at it with a forefinger, but nothing happened. "It really did work. I can’t believe it," he murmured. He examined his own hand, the one with the wedding ring, then held out his black-clad arms. “ _I’m_ not glowing or anything, am I?”

”No, no, nothing like that.” Aziraphale was having a hard time not staring transfixed at his face. The new eyes were so beautiful, so... _strange_. 

Crowley turned, and caught him looking. “What?” he asked warily. 

“Oh- nothing. Well, it’s just...” _Oh, dear._ He suspected that Crowley wasn't going to like this. He bit back a smile and kept his face serious. "Your eyes are a bit different, darling." 

“My eyes? What's wrong with my eyes?” Crowley demanded, sounding alarmed.

"Nothing's wrong with them. They're lovely." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small enameled pocket mirror, and handed it to him.

Crowley took it and stared into it, and his new eyes snapped wide. “Ack!” he said, recoiling. “What the- what the hell is that? Is this normal?" 

It was his turn to shrug helplessly. "I haven't the faintest. Many angels have accents, but no demon's ever become an angel again, as far as I'm aware. There is no normal for this particular situation."

"Lot of that going around lately," Crowley commented dryly. He seemed to have finally regained his equilibrium. He just kept staring at himself in the little mirror, squinting and widening his eyes in turn, trying on different expressions. "Nnngghhk. Bloody angel flash. We’ll see about that.”

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. It looked like it took him a couple of tries, but when he finally opened them again they were the same familiar snake eyes he had always known- ordinary tawny gold instead of metallic, slashed with black vertical pupils.

Aziraphale was surprised at how relieved he felt. It must have shown on his face, because Crowley smirked at him, obviously pleased with himself. “What do you think? Better?” He peered back into the little mirror, examining the eyes. “This is purely cosmetic now, of course.” He rubbed absently at his chest and gave a firm nod. His confident expression suddenly faltered, and he looked at him uncertainly. “Unless you like the other ones better?” 

“No, no, I’ve always thought your eyes are beautiful!" He placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Though the new ones are beautiful, too.” 

Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hm. I might go with them eventually, if I feel like it. Just not right now. They don’t get to make me over and put their mark on me. Speaking of marks…” He turned his face in the mirror and prodded at the cheek Aziraphale had just kissed, next to his ear. “It’s gone…”

“Your serpent tattoo!” It was indeed gone. Now that he noticed it, it was incredibly obvious.

“Well, it was less of a tattoo and more of a…brand.” Crowley gazed distantly at his reflection for a moment longer, running his fingertips over the unmarked area.

 _A brand?_ “You...never mentioned that.” 

Crowley gave a casual shrug. “Eh, not important. That change I’ll let slide.” He kept tilting his head back and forth, lifting his chin as he examined himself. “Hmmm, looks normal otherwise.” He adjusted his hair with a deliberately cocky flourish, then set down the mirror and spread his lanky arms, turning in a slow circle for his inspection. “You tell me, my angel. Any other new additions I need to worry about? Gold teeth? Glowing arse?” 

Aziraphale smothered a giggle with one hand, grinning uncontrollably. “Nothing I can see with your clothes on, at least. You look absolutely perfect to me.” It was true. He looked exactly as gangly and angular and ridiculous as he always had, rather like a skinny raven, not angelic in the slightest…and Good Lord, he had never looked more beautiful. 

Beautiful, and _safe._ Truly safe, for the first time in six thousand years. 

The thick sense of surreality was finally wearing away, and in its place came the most incredible euphoria. It finally dawned on him that this meant Crowley was all his, forever. No more fearing for his life. No more nights lying awake in a cold sweat, haunted by the idea of losing him. No more chance that demons could get their hands on him and trap him in Hell, ever again. Nothing could separate them now short of The Almighty Herself. They were as free as celestial beings could be. 

They were _free._

An entire mountain's-worth of weight lifted from his shoulders, and he couldn't stop smiling. There was so much delight that he could barely contain it; he felt like it might actually make him levitate if he didn't do something about it. He had a thousand and one questions, things he was dying to ask about the transformation...but those could wait until tomorrow. His love was safe, and the how and what didn't actually matter much. 

He moved closer and smoothed a hand down Crowley's chest, and his smile turned mischievous. "You look absolutely perfect, my dear," he repeated, and adjusted the grey tie. Long-fingered hands came to rest on his waist, gently stroking, and he didn't even need to glance up to know how Crowley was looking at him. He had felt this particular strain of emotion from him before, very, very recently, in the hours before signing.  
"I think," Aziraphale murmured, "that some celebration is in order, hm?" Without waiting for an answer he pushed up on his toes to kiss him, then in a burst of pure giddy joy threw his arms around him, eyes shut tight, pulling them close together and sliding his tongue into his mouth- 

-and jerked sharply back in dismay as Crowley gasped. 

Crowley was standing there, clutching his chest again and staring at him, snake eyes wide. “What… what _was_ that?” 

“What’s what? Does something hurt?” Happiness doused, Aziraphale frantically put a hand under his black shirt, feeling around for an injury, anything. What _now?_ Could the transformation have harmed him, somehow? He grabbed him by the shoulders, nearly at his wits end. “What is it? What's wrong?” Had _he_ harmed him? 

But Crowley didn’t look like he was in pain. He was still staring at him, and the stricken look on his face had softened to a kind of stunned awe. “I don’t know- everything felt so strange that I didn’t realize where it was coming from before, but- It almost felt like...like...” As Aziraphale watched in distressed bafflement, he reached out a trembling hand and touched fingertips to his velvet waistcoat, right over his heart...

...and Aziraphale suddenly realized what must be happening.

“ _Oh_. Oh, my darling.” He felt a rush of joy so potent that it made him dizzy, and he pressed a hand to his mouth. He swallowed, and smiled at him through eyes that were abruptly overflowing. Somehow this had never even occurred to him, not once. There had been so much else to focus on... “I think you must be sensing my- my love for you.” It was nearly too wonderful to believe. He put both hands eagerly over Crowley’s, holding him in place, and refocused on his emotions of a minute before. “Can you feel it now?”

Crowley looked thunderstruck, more floored than he had ever seen him in all those millennia. “Your… _what??_ But- but I thought that you could only feel humans, as part of your…job...” he trailed off as a new thought dawned. “That’s...wait. Have _you_ always been able to feel this? From me?”

"We're supposed to only be able to feel humans. I can't feel any of the other angels. But for some reason I've always been able to feel you, my dear. And now that you’re an angel...apparently you can feel me too." 

Crowley made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and shook his head. “That’s...I- that’s completely mad...I had no idea...” He spread his hand and pressed his palm closer to his chest. “It’s a lot stronger when I touch you,” he murmured in wonder, voice rough as sandpaper. “Can I...?” he held out his arms.

Aziraphale smiled and stepped into them, and Crowley enfolded him into his embrace, slowly, tightening his arms until they were one. Aziraphale closed his eyes, heart brimming, and lowered the barriers, opening himself up wide as he hugged him back. He let everything he was feeling spill into every nook and cranny of his consciousness, all the overwhelming happiness and love. From the sharp intake of breath, his husband felt it immediately. He let out a surprised sound that was nearly a moan and pulled him even closer. He held him as if trying to absorb him into his very soul.

In a burst of inspiration Aziraphale dug deep and brought up memories too, every possible memory of Crowley that had ever brought him joy, focusing on them one by one, amplifying them, letting him feel every nuance with as much clarity as possible. He whispered each memory in Crowley’s ear as he felt it, naming them and giving them shape. Their first kiss. Their wedding day. The leap in his heart when he heard his voice at the Bastille, all those years ago. Clandestine meetings at art galleries and museums and plays. A handshake and a vow to save the world. Dinners on the beach. A bag of unburnt books and a lift home...

Thousands of tiny, star-bright moments of love over six millennia, all swirling together into a galaxy’s worth of soaring emotion. Crowley held him, unmoving through it all, scarcely breathing, tremors shivering through his narrow body.

Six thousand years was a very long time. There were a lot of memories. They were in no hurry. They just stood there holding each other in the middle of their sitting room, neither willing to let go first, while the light gradually dimmed to dusk and shadows lengthened with the setting sun. The evening slid past in a timeless, perfect blur, just locked in the circle of each other’s arms and feeling the river of emotions swirl and sparkle around them, through them. Filling them both until there was nothing else.

Only when the clock struck the hour with a delicate chime did Aziraphale finally kiss him and look up into his face. It was fully dark, and Crowley was just a slim warm shadow in his arms. “I have always loved you,” he whispered. “Do you believe me now?” He tenderly brushed his cheekbone, and found that it was wet.

His husband said nothing, but the wordless pulse of emotion said all he needed to hear.

“Come with me, my love.” He took Crowley’s hand, and with a private smile lead him quietly upstairs to show him what else he had been missing.

* * *


	15. Our Side

* * *

Crowley ascended the stairs as if in a dream, barely feeling the wooden steps beneath his feet, barely feeling his own body. He was floating, a being of air and light. The only physical sensation that mattered was Aziraphale’s warm hand clasping his own, through which that staggering flood of love had not ceased pouring. And not _only_ love, apparently, but also the myriad other emotions that flavored it, like joy and excitement. 

Demons could sense emotions too, after a fashion: hatred and pain and rage and fear, all par for the demonic course and very useful for temptations. Knowing the worst of someone made it very easy to prod their weak spots and manipulate them. It had always manifested as a cold, sour churning in his upper stomach, tucked right under the scorch of the hellfire, and had dogged him every time he was in public. He’d spent inordinate amounts of energy trying to block it out, and had become pretty good at it over the years.

But this…this was a kind of music. Warm instead of burning, a kiss upon his soul; like Aziraphale’s smile distilled into physical form. It sank right through his chest like sunlight through snow. He had no defense against it, and didn’t want one. He could _feel_ this in a way that was both intimately familiar and defied simple description, and it stole his voice as thoroughly as it penetrated his heart. He could only stand there, dumbly, as his husband shut the bedroom door and faced him.

“First things first.”

Aziraphale reached out and gently lifted the grey tie over his head, then laid it over the back of the nearby armchair- one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. He stepped around behind him and carefully eased off his black jacket, folding it once before setting it aside. He unbuttoned the black vest one by one, then his shirt, that quiet smile still lingering about his mouth, and Crowley was struck by the symmetry. They had enacted a scene very much like this, last summer, the very first night they had ever spent together- except then it had been him doing the undressing.

The blond angel flicked him a playful glance as he worked, and from the sudden pulse of affection Crowley could tell that he was remembering the exact same thing.

They had come such a long, long way.

Soon all but his jeans had been removed and carefully stacked on the chair, and Aziraphale smoothed both hands down his bare chest. The steady flow of emotion he had been feeling for the past couple hours abruptly increased tenfold at the skin-to-skin contact; Crowley gasped and felt his knees go weak. He had to clutch at the velvet waistcoat to steady himself. 

“It’s alright, my dear.” Aziraphale rose up on his toes to kiss his lips, and framed his face between his hands. “Can I see them? Will you show me your wings?” The question was accompanied by a surge of excited happiness.

Crowley swallowed hard, unable to look away. He had not dared to open his wings downstairs. It would have ruined his favourite jacket, to start...but moreso because he was almost frightened of what he would see. It was the final proof, wasn’t it? Some tiny part of him believed that despite the other changes he could feel raging through him, the alien eyes and this new strangeness under his skin- that there had been a mistake. That he was still Fallen. That revealing his celestial form would prove it, show that nothing had changed after all.

Or, far worse...what if they _were_ different, and he didn’t look like himself anymore? What if he was more irrevocably changed than he realized, and when Aziraphale looked at him next he saw a stranger? He didn’t know if he could bear that.

It was a final leap of faith that he simply had not been ready for. But now, standing in their bedroom and holding his angel, filled to overflowing with his love and reassurance- he could face anything.

It was fitting to do it here in their most private of places, for their wings were a terribly private thing.

He slid his arms around his husband, and leapt.

With a sigh he released his wings, the way he had so many times before, felt them unfurl from his shoulders. Behind his closed eyelids, a burst of golden light.

There was a slow indrawn breath, and the steady hum of love and happiness peaked sharply into joy. “Darling, look.” Aziraphale spoke in barely a whisper.

Crowley opened his eyes and turned his head to see.

His wings were stretched out to either side of him, spanning the entire width of the little room, and they were no longer soot-black.

They were pure, dazzling white.

But not only white. There was a striation in the feathers, veins of gold running throughout, connecting and intersecting into a larger pattern. A pattern almost like...cracks. As he watched in breathless astonishment a soft glow ran down the wing, a shifting hint of fire deep within the gold, moving and breathing like live coals. Mesmerising. Like candlelight catching bits of metallic foil, except there were no candles here. 

Aziraphale’s upturned face was full of pure wonder. “They’re so beautiful,” he breathed, voice hushed. “You’re so beautiful.” He raised his hand to touch, and hesitated. “May I?”

“Of course,” Crowley managed huskily. “Of course you can. Always.”

Aziraphale gently laid his hand on the feathers, and wherever he touched that soft fire rippled around his fingers like water. He gave a delighted laugh and moved his hand to the top of the wing, stroking down the limb, watching wide-eyed as the gold light responded again. "I've never seen anything like this. It's remarkable." He ran his fingers through the feathers and laughed again, face aglow with such incredible awe and joy, a joy Crowley could now _feel_ as well as see. 

His worries fell away, and all at once he no longer cared about his wings. He had eyes only for Aziraphale, still enfolded in his arms. 

He wrapped the fire-touched wings around him like a gold-threaded cloak, and pulled him in to kiss him.

In response the shorter angel threw his arms around his neck and knocked him back onto the bed.

Then suddenly all was uncontrolled magic and shifting glimmering wings and soaring emotion, fabric vanishing and melting away under their hands faster than they could remove it. Aziraphale trailed burning kisses down his chest as he grasped desperately, eagerly, finally crawling into his aching-hard lap to wrap his arms and legs around him. 

The shock of bare skin was nothing compared to the shock of absolutely raw feeling that accompanied the full-body touch. It roared through Crowley like a hurricane, dazzling, overwhelming, as Aziraphale put his hands on him and spread his own white wings with a snap and rush of air.

And then…

And _then._

He had already been convinced that nothing in the world could beat sex with his angel. But, as it turned out, he’d only been experiencing it halfway, like viewing a picture of the ocean versus seeing the real thing. He had been listening to a single melody all this time, only to abruptly have it swell into a symphony.

He had never _dreamed_ sex could be like this.

 _This_ was making love with that enchanting river of emotion running through it, giving new dimension to the physical pleasure, blending with the unique magic of human touch to create something utterly exquisite. Kneeling in their bed with Aziraphale astride him, skin clasped to skin, clutching at his soft waist and thighs. Wings wrapped tight around each other like a second pair of arms, trading gasps and crying out as they moved together in the perfect warmth. Feeling their love reach for each other, mingling until he could not tell where Aziraphale ended and he began. Feeling his own joy caught and reflected back at him like light off a mirror, ricocheting and amplifying back and forth between them until it felt as if the entire bed, the entire _house_ would surely burst into radiant flame like the sun itself.

It didn’t, but as the rapture quickly hit its zenith he felt that power spill glittering out of their skin. In his mind’s eye he saw the small fern sitting on the open windowsill across the room burst wildly into flower, stretching towards the moonlit sky and pouring out of its little ceramic pot. The ceiling lamp sparked and shorted out, plunging them into darkness, but he barely noticed any of it. He was busy focusing on the glorious crescendo of Aziraphale’s love and happiness as he shuddered and came in his arms for the first time, fingers buried in each other’s feathers. Crowley held him tight and sobbed unrestrainedly at the beauty of it. He cried from sheer overwhelming joy, from relief, from catharsis, from six thousand years of doubts put to rest beyond all question. He cried harder than he had ever allowed himself to cry before, and for once in his life he felt no shame. It _would_ have been incredibly embarrassing, if there had been room for any emotion but happiness, but his cup was filled to brimming. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel quite this much joy.

Aziraphale held him while they both caught their breath, soft hands stroking his back. Murmuring things that barely registered among all the raw affection still pouring through his heart and mind.

“Anthony.” The name was just another whisper through the dark, but it caught his attention. Aziraphale took his hand and pressed it to his thundering chest, possessively, cupping his fingers over it to hold him there. “I want you to know that I would have Fallen for you. I would have thrown myself off that cliff without hesitation if it came to it.”

And Crowley could tell, from the bell tone of absolute, shining love, that it was nothing but the truth.

“My beautiful angel,” he whispered against his throat, and kissed the racing pulse there. The skin was wet and salty from his tears; he licked it away and bit gently. “ _My_ angel. My star.” He lifted himself up on his knees a little, testing his new angelic strength, amazed at how effortless it was. “I would never let you Fall.” He tipped Aziraphale slowly back, down to lay on the bed without easing apart, careful not to hurt his wings.

With a snap of his fingers he performed his second miracle of the night, the one that they had discovered so recently, the one that eliminated the need to wait. He assumed he could do it, and thus he could, simple as that. He knew it had worked from the resulting deep moan, and the way Aziraphale’s hands tightened on him with fresh ardor, quickly confirmed by the newly rigid feeling between them.

He loved him again, slowly this time, like a priest at worship, every thrust and caress a tribute. Even with the constant glimmer of his new wings it was darker than he had ever experienced before, darker than his demonic vision had ever let it be. That wasn’t a problem. He didn’t need to see, not with the sounds his husband was making, not with the love flowing from him in peaks and waves, more clearly pointing the way than any other senses. He would have known Aziraphale by touch alone; his hands knew him more intimately than his eyes possibly could, knew the soft give of his body and the brush of his curls under his fingers. The perfect curve of his spine as he arched taut beneath him, moaning out each orgasm. He knew the taste of his sweat and pound of his heart under his teeth and tongue; the smell of him, of his cologne, of his sweet breath as he gripped him tight in return and sighed his longing into his mouth. The way his wings entwined with his own, until they were one. He knew it all the way he knew his own skin.

Crowley didn’t stop until he had wrung several more gasping releases from him, one after another after another.

When he finally paused to catch his breath, Aziraphale grabbed him round the waist and with a groan of effort rolled them insistently over. He pinned him to the bed by his wings, pressing them gently but firmly down, and firelit radiance shifted and brightened eagerly all about his hands. Golden light sparkled off the sweat on his body and glinted in his eyes as he stared intently down at him. 

"My turn, darling," he said breathlessly.   
  


The rest of that long, long night, there were no more tears.

* * *

Come the next morning, one extremely shell-shocked former demon could be found at the dining table, sitting in his husband’s plush lap, wearing only his dressing gown. Aziraphale’s soft, comforting arm was wrapped around his waist with hand interlaced tightly through his own. They had a cup of tea apiece and a plate of fresh scones with butter and jam set out in front of them, and were simply enjoying each other’s company, enjoying the normalcy of breakfast at home and the everyday little things that reminded them life was good.

Crowley had yet to touch the food. He held his teacup in his free hand and was still working up the presence of mind to take a sip. Aziraphale was working his way through the scones for the both of them, sipping freely at his own sweetened tea with a quiet smile and an air of complete satisfaction, unchanged and unflappable as always. His steady, calm, unmistakably smugpresence grounded him, which was good because Crowley had never been in more need of grounding. A kind of pleasant shock and disbelief still gallivanted through him and lent the world a surreal cast.

His current mood could be accurately summarized as _Holy shit_.

Adding to the surreal feeling were the alabaster white wings that he still had out, at Aziraphale’s request, tucked close against his back so as not to knock anything over. Menace had been sitting by his food bowl and staring at him for most of the morning, clearly fascinated as well. The end of one wing dragged on the floor a bit, a single large feather sticking out, and the little black cat was tracking its movements with wide eyes and the tip of his tail twitching.

In daylight the veins of fiery gold were more subtle, though light still gleamed along the feathers even when completely still and in shadow. The clear sunlight had revealed that in addition to the gold, they also had flecks of iridescent shimmer scattered through them. Exactly like Aziraphale’s. The implications of _that_ were still something of a mystery to him, but a mystery he could happily accept. And as beautiful and remarkable as they were…the wings were not what held his rapt attention.

Crowley finally took a sip of his cooled black tea (coffee would’ve been a bad idea) with a slightly trembling hand and closed his eyes, soaking in the quiet between them – a quiet that was now full in a way it had never been before. A soft warmth like a burning coal was emanating from his husband and triggering echoing flares in his own chest. He still felt it constantly, had felt it ever since that moment last night after…after…

He felt it every time Aziraphale looked at him, doubly so when he smiled and triply so when he touched him, and it was enough to keep him constantly breathless and fighting a pricking sensation behind his eyes. He couldn’t seem to get used to it, at all. Deeper than a mere physical heat, unmistakably love and somehow distinctly _Aziraphale_ , that feeling was as recognizable and ancient-familiar as his voice or smell. Familiar, unmistakable, and positively the most _beautiful_ thing he had ever experienced. More dazzling than the sun, more majestic than Everest; more awe inspiring than the turn of the galaxies in space as stars were born. He had seen all of those things, and none compared to this, this alchemy of human and angelic power. It made him feel like a man come frozen and shaking in from the cold, desperate to move closer to the fire and submerge himself in that warmth. 

If there had been even the slightest sliver of doubt about his choice, the first five seconds of that first embrace would have laid it to rest.

He set down his barely-touched tea and wrapped both arms around Aziraphale, pressing his nose into the blond curls, inhaling the wonderful mingled scents of cologne and citrus shampoo. Like himself the angel also only wore a dressing gown, albeit a much fancier and more embroidered version than his own, and his body was delightfully huggable beneath the ivory silk. He couldn’t help but notice the way the garment split had ridden up on his leg, baring one plump thigh and revealing a couple very interesting bruises. The same crescent-shaped bruises that marked both of their necks and shoulders. And backs...

Crowley fought off another wave of pleasant dizziness and slid a hand beneath the silk neckline to touch his husband’s chest for the hundredth time that day, stroking the soft down growing there. He just couldn’t resist.

Aziraphale put his own hand over his, holding it there against his heart, and looked up at him with a sunny smile that could be felt like a summer breeze. He tilted his head and placed a soft kiss upon the side of his throat, mouth warm. Crowley’s entire body thrilled in response, and he swayed in his seat. He had to take a moment, and breathe, and take a sip of tea, and get his heightened reactions under control. It felt as if his normal emotional barriers had all been sandpapered off last night, during that staggering, unbelievable stretch of time when his entire understanding of the word “incredible” had been torn apart and redefined.

Neither of them had slept a wink, that was for damn certain, and for once he couldn’t consider it a loss. Their newfound, er, lack of physical limitations had been put to excellent use. Nearly excessive use.

They had finally tired themselves out sometime around dawn. Then they had simply lain there holding each other, watching the sun rise from their window and listening to the birdsong. That window had been newly adorned with an entire garden's-worth of little crimson flowers, snaking up over all four sides of the frame and covering both shutters...which made no real sense at all because it hadn't even been a vine in the first place- only a poor, plain fern. Apparently, untrammeled angelic power did strange things to other living things. 

They had spent the rest of the morning just curled up under the tartan sheets, exchanging sleepy kisses and murmuring half-awake things to each other that they forgot nearly as quickly as they said them. The way the words had felt, though...that he still remembered.

If _that_ was what Aziraphale had been getting all this time…it was a twofold wonder that he ever pried himself out of bed.

“Here, darling.” Aziraphale interrupted his thoughts, dragging him back to the present to offer him a bite of scone. Love, deep and abiding, suddenly radiated from him afresh, filling the air like a cloud and pouring down the arm against his chest like water from a spigot. Crowley just sat there gazing into those blue eyes, struck dumb. Was this what had been going on under the surface, all this time? All that, right there, just beyond his perception? He set his trembling jaw and gave himself an internal shake. At this rate, the next time he kissed him he was liable to simply keel over and lie senseless on the floor. _For Someone’s sake. Pull it together._

He cleared his throat and allowed himself to be fed the rest of the scone. Cinnamon and sugar and vanilla burst on his tongue, one after another, far more vividly than usual and quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He was enjoying _everything_ more than usual. Even food had a sweeter flavor.

It took him a few more hand-fed bites to realise that it wasn’t just his mood- it literally did taste sweeter. He took another bracing sip of his tea and sniffed at the air. “Do you smell sulfur?” he asked.

Aziraphale sniffed too, and looked quizzically at him. “No. Do you?”

“No. That’s just it, I don’t at all. I just realized, I think I could always smell it a bit, before. Kind of at the back of my throat, you know?” He gestured and sipped at his tea again. Now that he was looking for it, the difference was unmistakable. “Huh. I thought that’s just what earth smelled like.” The idea was astounding.

“Wait.” Aziraphale was staring at him in something akin to horror. He blinked quickly a few times, as if he could barely comprehend what he was about to say. “You mean to say that...all this time, all these years, you’ve been constantly smelling that horrid rotten egg smell? Even when you eat?” He could hardly have looked more horrified if he had revealed that he was eating raw sewage with each bite. “You never said a word!”

“I didn’t even realize that’s what it was. It was just normal for me.” He inhaled deeply through his nose, and let it out slowly. “Yeah. Just a faint undertone. At first I thought there was just some really good smell in the air today, but no. It's just the lack of sulfur.” He took another bite of scone **,** and chewed experimentally. “Stuff tastes better without it too.” It was as if a very thin layer of grime had been wiped away from his tongue, from everything really, a grime that he had never even realized was there.

“Good Lord. I should think so!” Aziraphale exclaimed, sounding scandalized. He stared into appalled space for a few seconds longer. “We are going to have to taste everything, all over again, now that you don’t have _that_ to contend with.” His expression brightened, and he smiled excitedly up at him. “Ooh! This will be such _fun._ Let’s go to sushi for dinner tonight, and ice cream after that. Oh, and tomorrow we can go to the farmer’s market and try _everything!_ ”

“Sure. Whatever you want.” Crowley cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, taking his time. “Mmmm.” He kissed him again, even slower. A smile welled up inside, and he let it spread across his face without a fight. “Anything you want, my darling angel.”

The wave of emotion that blasted from Aziraphale as he spoke made him gasp. He pulled slightly away and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh. Sorry.” Aziraphale had flushed pink. “I suppose I’m just not used to that yet.”

Crowley grinned, feeling a mad giddiness run through him. “Used to _what_ , my darling?”

Aziraphale only rolled his eyes, but the emotion that pulsed from him was unmistakable. Crowley grinned wider. “Ah ha. You can’t hide from me anymore. I can tell _exactly_ what you think of…of…everything…” He trailed off as he realized what he was saying, and his jaw dropped open. “Oh. Oh Satan.” He stared into space, comprehension dawning, running last night over in his head. “All this time. This whole year. That’s how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Always knew what- what- you know, what I _liked!_ ”

“Ah. Ahem. Well…yes.” Aziraphale blushed furiously red, and tried to cover it with an overly-casual sip of his tea. He didn’t seem to notice that the cup was empty. “It _did_ make it rather easy, I suppose.”

“You sneaky little…you…you were _cheating.”_ Crowley’s eyes widened, and he looked at his husband in wicked delight. “You, an angel, were cheating! All along!”

“Excuse me, I wasn’t _cheating!_ I couldn’t help feeling it!” Aziraphale protested indignantly. The rounded cheeks had surpassed red and moved on to bright scarlet, and his expression of alarmed guilt may have been the cutest thing Crowley had ever seen.

“Yeah, but you never said a word, you sneaky little bastard. You just let me think you were naturally talented, or perceptive, or…” With a gleeful laugh Crowley pulled him into his arms, tipped him over parallel to the floor and kissed him before he could say anything more. Aziraphale squeaked in surprise and flailed, dropping his teacup onto the floor, but with Crowley sitting on his lap there was nowhere for him to go. Crowley only dipped him lower and kissed him harder. There was a tiny bit of jam on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth; he licked it away and kept kissing him while the mortified angel spluttered and kicked his legs and tried to push his face away.

Crowley found he was now easily able to carry both their weights without falling off the chair. The realization only made him want to giggle.

He finally pulled him back up and let him go, and by then Aziraphale was nearly purple with embarrassment and indignation. He smoothed his hair and straightened his incredibly askew dressing gown with wounded dignity, and repaired the shattered teacup, while Crowley cackled uncontrollably.

“For heavens sake. You- you _ridiculous_ serpent,” Aziraphale muttered, delicately blotting his mouth with a napkin. He wouldn’t look at him, but he had the deliberately purse-lipped expression that meant he was fighting a smile. His cheeks were still pink. 

“Aw, c’mon, angel, don’t be like that. I think it’s brilliant.” Still grinning, Crowley kissed his hand, a conciliatory gesture. He finally felt a bit more on solid footing; flustering his husband was such a fun and familiar activity. And Aziraphale was just impossibly cute when he was irritated. “I _definitely_ married the right person.” He shifted on his lap and pressed his lips to his cheek, making sure to focus on exactly how much he loved him. Now that he knew he could feel it, two could play that game. 

It must have worked. The severe expression wavered, then finally melted into a smug smile. “Well, yes.” Aziraphale slid an arm back around his waist, relenting, and reached for another scone. His voice turned sly. “So, my dear. Am I going to have to start calling _you ‘_ angel’ now?”

It was Crowley’s turn to look at him in alarm. “Oh, you- ugh, don’t you dare.” He draped an arm around his shoulders and closed his eyes, pressing his nose into his hair. ”Mmm. On that note, I don’t know if I actually...feel like an angel, really. I don't feel much different, in most ways that matter. What the hell is an angel supposed to feel like nowadays?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. He thought for a moment. “I...I honestly don’t know,” he said quietly, and gave him a wry, gentle smile. “When you figure that out, be sure to tell me, will you?”

“You know, that’s oddly comforting.” Crowley put his hand down the neck of the dressing gown again, drumming his fingers against his chest. “I guess I’ll have to settle for feeling _this_ , hm?”

“Yes.” This time Aziraphale met him gaze for gaze and did not blush, but put a hand on his knee and slid it up his inner thigh. Allll the way up. “And this.” It was his turn to grin as Crowley gasped, and he kept his hand there. “We can at least know for sure what it feels like to be human.” He moved his hand again, and the gasp turned into a whimper.

They were feeling _extremely_ human a minute or two later, when they were rudely interrupted by a feline yowl. Menace had apparently grown bored of the entire situation and was standing by the back door, the one that led to the garden.

“Shut up,” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale’s mouth, and tightened his arms.

Menace meowed again, scratched at the door, and kept yowling.

Aziraphale sighed, and reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Might as well let him out, love. He’s not going to stop making that noise until you do.”

“Nnnnnngggh...” Crowley stood up with a growl and strode across the room, untied dressing gown swinging around his legs, muttering under his breath. He opened the door – to reveal the Archangel Fucking Gabriel standing right there, hand raised in a fist to knock.

 _"Holy bloody fuck!_ ” Crowley flinched violently back and slammed the door in Gabriel’s face. Menace recoiled in alarm, spitting, and sprinted off somewhere into the depths of the house, knocking over a small potted plant with a crash. Crowley resisted the mad urge to do the same; his already-frayed emotions were still firing up and down and every which way. He whirled back to Aziraphale, wings askew, feathers fluffed up almost vertically on end. “It’s that wanker Gabriel again!” he hissed in a panic. A moment later confusion smote him as he remembered that now, technically, they were not enemies. Ugh. _Technically_. Forget that. No amount of technicality was going to stop him hating the smug prick.

After a frozen second Aziraphale very deliberately got to his feet, and straightened his dressing gown. “Well. The sooner we see what he wants, the sooner he’ll leave.” He came to stand beside him, fidgeting nervously. “It should be fine. We’re exonerated, remember?” Words notwithstanding, he took a casual step towards the sword leaning next to the desk, putting it within easy grabbing reach.

Crowley glared at the door. The bastard’s silhouette didn’t even show through the frosted glass pane. Creepy, that. As if light passed straight through him. “What are the odds that if we ignore him he’ll just go away?” he asked. 

“Unlikely, I’m afraid.”

“Dammit.” Fine, then. He wasn’t going to let some corporate stiff make him nervous.

Aziraphale squeezed his arm reassuringly, and with the touch there came a very deliberate and pointed pulse of love, like a mental kiss. Crowley felt himself relax. With a sigh he furled away his wings, re-knotted his waist sash with a jerk, then stomped back over and yanked open the door. “What?” he snapped.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Gabriel looked him up and down, pained smile sliding off his face, taking in his state of undress – the disheveled hair, the bruises, the sloppily-tied dressing gown gaping open to below the waist (and barely covering a minimum of what should be covered) – with obvious dismay.

The Archangel himself was impeccably dressed in full formal regalia: a crisp, pure ivory suit with pale lavender tie, accented by a gold satin sash affixed with an elaborately filigreed gold sigil pin. His dark hair was parted with ruler-edge precision, patent leather dress shoes polished to a mirror shine. He wore a starched collar so rigid it could probably be used as a weapon, and if his back had been any straighter it might have snapped.

_Ugh._

Crowley felt a surge of perverse pleasure in knowing exactly how ragamuffin he looked by comparison. It was clear as crystal what they had been doing. He favoured him with his laziest grin and slouched casually against the doorframe. “Yeeeeeesss?” He drew out the word as insolently as he knew how.

After another moment of awkward silence, Gabriel dredged up his pained smile again and cleared his throat. “Ah. Greetings,” he said with an admirable attempt at pleasant formality. “I have been sent on behalf of Heaven to bid you, officially, welcome.” He held out both hands stiffly before him, as if in benediction.

Crowley eyed him, and let the pause sit for a moment. “Welcome. Right. You tried to kill me two days ago **.** Nice outfit, though.”

“I was _not_ informed about that particular operation,” Gabriel replied testily. “But yes, welcome. Such an...unprecedented event demands recognition. In my official capacity as Herald, I would like to bid you welcome, and congratulations, angel-”

He stopped, staring at his face, apparently just noticing the snake eyes. “ _What_ have you done to yourself?” he demanded.

“What, you don’t like ‘em?” Crowley drawled. Against all the odds, he was enjoying this. He’d been unsure about the eyes, to be honest, but this reaction was more than worth it.

“Anyway,” Gabriel continued in a resigned voice with a weary shake of his head, “I have been sent to bid you welcome. And collect the paperwork."

“I’ll get it,” Aziraphale said behind him. A moment later there was a tap on his shoulder as he handed him the stack of documents.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley said without looking away. He wasn’t about to turn his back on Gabriel, not for a second, and he wasn’t about to let him near his husband if he could help it.

He handed the still-faintly-glowing pages to Gabriel, who took them without ceremony.

The Archangel squinted down at the document. “Ah. That still leaves the reinstatement of your Name,” he began.

Crowley held up a hand, cutting him off. “I’ve got a Name already, thanks. It’s right there.” He jabbed at the page.

Gabriel attempted a chuckle, then blinked when he didn’t crack a smile. “Come on. You can’t be Angel Crowley. It’s not a proper-”

“I don’t give a shit about proper angel names. I signed as Crowley. It was accepted. That's still what it says there. You can either accept it too, or go back to your boss-” ("our boss, dear,” Aziraphale murmured gently behind him) “-ugh, fine, _our_ boss, and complain to Her.”

“Fine.” Gabriel exhaled hard through his nose, apparently out of patience. He threw up his hands. “You know what, fine. Whatever. At least now we can put all this unpleasantness behind us! Now that you are…one of us again.”

“Ha.” Crowley folded his arms and regarded him flatly. “Let’s get one thing straight, right now. I am not like you. I might be an- an angel again,” (the word still stuck in his throat) “but if you think that means either of us are suddenly going to dance to _your_ tune, you can think again. I’ll do what’s needed for the humans, fine, but it ends there. And if you ever try to harm Aziraphale again? If you try to control him, or _ever_ so much as lay a finger on him?” He gave him his best demonic smile, baring all his teeth. “Then I swear, I’ll rip your stupid purple tie off your neck and shove-”

“And we’re staying here. Both of us are,” Aziraphale cut in loudly. He was suddenly at his side, sliding a soft arm around his waist and pulling him slightly back. He’d apparently decided to step in before he did something rash. Love poured from him now, warm and supportive and far too concentrated to be anything but deliberate, and Crowley felt his rage melt away. “You leave us be and don’t try to start any more nonsense, and all will be well.”

“Yeah. No more War,” Crowley said firmly. Aziraphale’s arm was a steady, soothing presence around him. He leaned into his bulk and put his own arm around his shoulders, facing the Archangel squarely as one. “Not on Earth. If you’re so keen for a fight you can have it somewhere else. Big old universe out there. Let the humans keep on spinning round and making their choices. The Almighty might not directly intervene, but _we_ will. Again, if needed.”

“We can be _very_ persistent,” Aziraphale agreed.

“And irritating. We're good at that.”

“Yes, quite.” 

"Don't make us get _involved_." 

Gabriel just stood there with the papers in his hands, looking more and more irked and baffled by the second.

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “You poor smug idiots. All this time thinking you were the players. But you’re actually the _pieces_ , same as us. That’s got to sting, huh?”

A muscle twitched in Gabriel’s jaw.

“Bye,” Crowley said, and slammed the door in his face again with vicious satisfaction. He brushed off his hands with a flourish, and let out a slow breath of relief. He looked down at Aziraphale, who still had his arm around his waist and was watching him with a smile. “How did I do?”

Aziraphale cupped his cheek and kissed him on the lips, and a sparkof pleased happiness leapt between them. He was _definitely_ doing that on purpose. “You’re a force of nature, my love. Let's have a drink.”

* * *

Aziraphale set out two wine glasses on the sitting room coffee table, then made straight for the wine cabinet and carefully withdrew a bottle of 1961 Chateau Latour. He'd kept it tucked away at the very back for a particularly special occasion, and if today didn’t signify then nothing did. He used a small miracle to remove the red-waxed cork with a _pop_ , not in the mood to bother with the proper tools, and poured them each a generous helping.

They settled onto the sofa, hip to hip, and Crowley scooped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in against him. Telling off Gabriel certainly seemed to have put him in high spirits, for he grinned lazily and kissed him before tapping their glasses together.

“To being left alone, finally. And to our world, my angel.” He kissed him again, slower. “Mmm. And everything important in it.” 

“Indeed. To _our_ world.” Aziraphale beamed and kissed him back. He couldn’t help but gaze at him in a bit of awe. The way he had handled Gabriel like that, like- like an irritating fly, had been a joy to watch. The Archangel always made _him_ feel like a child that stepped out of line, but Crowley...his fearless Crowley was simply not impressed. He was absolutely marvelous. Marvelous, and more handsome in his disheveled dressing gown and morning scruff than any other person alive dressed to the nines. 

They both sipped contentedly for a couple of minutes, lapsing back into the peaceful silence of earlier. He was pleased to find that the dark red wine was truly excellent, everything the critics (and price) had promised - rich, velvety, extraordinary depth of flavour. A perfect choice. He wriggled closer to his husband with a happy sigh and lay his head on his shoulder. Crowley's arm around him was still warm, if no longer fever warm, and no less comfortable for it. Oh, but he was so beautiful, and brave. He simply couldn’t get enough of him, even- _especially_ after last night. The urge to drag him back to bed had been tugging at him all day.

"You really didn't want your old name back?" he asked quietly after a while. He was glad, but still curious. Crowley had told him about it early that morning, in the hushed interim between moonlight and dawn as they just lay holding each other. He’d whispered to him, haltingly, about the transformation, and the recovery of part his memory. About his refusal of the last. 

Crowley shook his head and set down his empty glass on the coffee table. "Nope. Too many strings. Besides...” He quirked a smiled, and tenderly stroked his cheek with one finger. “Why would I want a name from a life that didn’t include you?”

The question came with a sudden stream of absolutely blinding love, completely overwhelming all thought, and Aziraphale almost dropped his wine. _Oh dear._ He blushed and stared down at his lap, fighting back a lump in his throat. 

He mastered himself and looked up again, to find Crowley just watching him with the faintest of satisfied smirks. Oh, Good _Lord._ It seemed that his ridiculous, stubborn, painfully attractive husband had finally figured out that he could amplify the effect by focusing on it. This was going to be _trouble._ In a battle for lack of subtlety, Crowley would win every single time. 

All the more so because he knew full well that the emotions couldn’t be feigned, and what he had just felt was genuine. 

Crowley’s hand was still touching his face, long fingers pressed to his cheek, still close enough to kiss. His yellow eyes were soft, just looking at him. He did this often, simply trailed off and went quiet, and like now it was usually when his emotions were the loudest. Aziraphale sighed, and put a hand over his wrist. "Oh my love. My wily adversary," he said quietly. All those long years convinced he was being lured by demonic powers, and now, here he was. Fully angelic and more tempting than he had ever been. It was enough to make a person feel very foolish. "I don't know how I got so lucky." 

"Pfft. You didn’t," Crowley said reasonably, and tightened his arm around his shoulders. "If we're discussing luck, _I'm_ the one who found the only angel in the universe worth both Falling and Rising for. I definitely got the better end of the deal." 

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. You have always been worth Falling for.” In a burst of giddiness Aziraphale set down his glass and turned towards him, taking his hand. “Go on, ask me for anything in the whole world. Ask me...ask me to run off with you again," he said, and felt his face crease into a silly smile. "Like you did before Armageddon." 

"Okay...if you insist." Crowley grinned, clearly humouring him. He cleared his throat, wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pulled them close together, foreheads touching. He let out a long, slow sigh, and closed his eyes. "Run away with me, angel," he murmured softly. "Please. Come away with me, and be mine forever." 

"Yes," he replied immediately. He knew it was _so_ absurd, but he found himself fighting happy tears. Perhaps it was just the overwhelming joy of the day. Perhaps it was the raw emotion pouring from Crowley, as if was for real. As if he was still truly asking. "Yes. We can, right now. Anywhere you want to go, my love." 

Crowley opened his eyes. "Oh, look." He made a show of glancing around at the sitting room. "And here we are." 

"Here we are," Aziraphale agreed, beaming. "Safe at home. After all this time." 

"Yeah. Imagine that." Crowley kissed him on the nose, and the sheer ocean of feeling beneath that simple gesture took his breath away. 

Crowley leaned back and stretched, long and leisurely, groaning. “Now that that’s settled, do you mind if I sleep for a bit? Being an angel is exhausting work.” He yawned, and offered him a crooked smile. “I need to regain my strength if we're going to go out to dinner tonight.”

And with a leap of his heart, Aziraphale suddenly remembered that he had a gift for him. He managed not to gasp, but just barely. He had been eagerly waiting for this: the first sleep as an angel. There was something that had been on his mind ever since those two infinite days ago, since the possibility of Rising had presented itself; something he had been helplessly aching to do for nearly a year. And now, for the first time, possible. 

He quickly tried to reel in his emotions lest he give himself away. “Of course! I’ve got plenty I can read; I wouldn’t mind some quiet time. Especially since we didn't get any sleep last night." He quickly summoned a book to hand with a finger snap, something at random, and swiveled to lie lengthwise along the sofa with back against the armrest. He patted the cushion between his legs and held out his arms, smiling expectantly. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, but wasted no time in scooting in. He snuggled up close to him with his back against his chest, wiggling a bit more than absolutely necessary, and laid his head in the crook of his shoulder. "This okay?" he asked. 

"Yes. Yes, this is perfect." Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him and kissed the side of his head, beaming. A bony shoulder was digging into his middle, and his own dressing gown had ridden up somewhat alarmingly. "I couldn't be more comfortable." 

Crowley tilted his head back and just lay there looking at him for a long moment with those golden eyes, a faint smile on his lips. The kind of relaxed, peaceful smile he had rarely seen on him before last year. The kind of smile he had always deserved. He reached up and put a lanky arm around his neck in a brief hug. "Love you, angel." The words were practically unnecessary given how loudly his emotions were shouting, but Aziraphale felt a warm flush sweep him from head to toe anyway. 

"I love you too, my dear." Saying it still mattered. 

He sat there carding his fingers through the soft russet hair, watching the familiar gold eyes gradually droop and slide closed. _Six thousand years of experiences, and a_ _ll the miracles of Hell and Heaven at our fingertips...yet none ever held a candle to this,_ he thought wonderingly.

A peace deeper than anything he had ever known settled over the quiet, sunlit room. Tonight there would be more wine, and sushi, and dessert, and possibly even stars, if he asked nicely...but for now there was only the simple joy of Crowley's body pressing all along his own, the lift and fall of his skinny chest in his arms. The slow buzz of his breathing as he drifted off. Warm and human and perfectly imperfect, and so very alive.

Aziraphale just lay there for a minute or two longer, feeling the soft thrum of Crowley's love and letting his own echo right back. Remembering a night, not so long ago, on a sofa much like this one, when he had acknowledged that thrum for the first time. The night he had finally stopped lying to himself, and started living.

In the tiny back room of a Soho bookshop, they had together found something precious, and powerful, and uniquely human. So very, miraculously human. 

He kissed his forehead, took a deep breath, and leaned in to whisper his gift in his ear: “Sleep well, my darling Anthony. And have sweet dreams of whatever you love best.” 

“Should be easy,” Crowley mumbled back, only half-awake, and reached one hand up. “Already got it all right here.”

Aziraphale took his hand, and felt it go slack in his grip as Crowley fully succumbed to sleep. The first of many, many sleeps that were now, at long last, guaranteed to be free of nightmares. 

_Yes._ _Right here. On earth, together. Exactly where we belong._

He tightened his grip on his husband with a smile, and opened his book.

* * *

  
  


_En Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Gosh. It is done! I think I'm in as much shock as Crowley. o_O I need to have a very stiff drink and a whole lot of ice cream. 😱 And possibly cry, because I loved writing this series and didn’t want it to end. 
> 
> I can't possibly say how grateful I am to all the people who have stuck with this series for a WHOLE YEAR; I appreciate you so much! ❤️ You are all so *amazing*! And a huge special thanks to everyone who has commented and let me know what you thought; it definitely contributed to keeping the series going. This started last July as what was supposed to be a one-chapter one-shot, and...obviously it got a bit out of hand. As I think a lot of people have found, it turned out that one small story was just not enough. 
> 
> I certainly hope you enjoyed reading it; I was truly unsure at first about Crowley’s Rising, but at the end of the day, I realized I simply couldn’t leave them with the possibility of separation after everything they had gone through. What greater horror than to lose each other?? Now, they never have to ❤️
> 
> The series may be finally over, but I have at least a couple more PWPs in this series universe that will go up on the Firenzia account, so you haven't entirely seen the last of it :) And I'm working on another Good Omens fic too, something new and different, so...hopefully that will see the light of day soon. 
> 
> To the world!

**Author's Note:**

> There is a companion PWP account to this series as well- all part of the same story, just set apart to avoid overload. If you want more smut one shots you can find it [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenzia/works)
> 
> You can also find me on IG @IneffablePenguin


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